FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 


FORTUNE 
AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 


By 
CAMILLA  KENYON 


jJuthar  0} 
SPANISH  DOUBLOONS 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS  MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1921 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PBE33  OF 

BRAUNWORTH   &  CO. 

BOOK  MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN,   N.  V. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 


M530836 


FORTUNE 
AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 


CHAPTER  I 

I  SUPPOSE  the  strangest  thing  about  the  whole 
affair  is  that  we  should  have  gone  to  Bandy's 
Flat  at  all,  because  of  course  it  is  the  sort  of  place 
where  no  one  ever  does  go.  It  all  grew  out  of  my 
casual  remarks  to  Miss  Spence,  that  the  doctor  said 
Kit  must  have  mountain  air.  Nothing  warned  me 
that  all  my  future  life,  and  several  other  lives,  hung 
on  those  seemingly  trivial  words.  Nor  did  Miss 
Spence,  who  came  on  Tuesdays  to  do  the  mending, 
look  like  the  instrument  of  fate  when  she  replied, 
biting  off  a  thread,  that  there  was  no  mountain  air 
like  that  at  Bandy's  Flat  where  she  was  born. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  me  before  that  Miss 
Spence,  with  her  spectacles  and  her  little  knob  of 
faded  hair  and  her  teeth  that  didn't  fit,  had  been 

I 


2  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

born  anywhere,  least  of  all  in  the  hectic  past  of  a 
Mother  Lode  mining  town.  But  as  she  enlarged 
with  the  fondness  of  early  recollections  on  its  pre 
eminence  in  the  matter  of  shootings,  and  lynchings, 
and  general  riotousness,  my  interest  grew.  It  be 
came  personal  when  she  added  with  a  sigh  that 
Bandy's  was  a  dead  town  now,  so  that  Kit  and  I 
could  as  well  as  not  go  there  by  ourselves,  provided 
Lavinia  Luppy  would  take  us  in. 

I  knew  that  wherever  we  went  for  mountain  air 
we  must  go  by  ourselves,  for  Arabella  doesn't  like 
mountains  and  had  her  own  plans  for  the  summer. 
Kit  and  I  had  only  each  other  in  the  world,  unless 
you  took  Arabella  seriously  as  a  step-parent.  We 
did  not,  of  course,  though  liking  her  very  well  and 
perfectly  understanding  that  anybody  permanently 
twenty-eight  might  dislike  to  be  called  mother  by 
a  person  of  eighteen.  And  of  course  it  was  true,  as 
she  pointed  out,  that  Kit  needn't  have  waited  till 
eleven  to  have  scarlet  fever,  but  have  got  it  over 
and  done  with  in  his  cradle.  It  was  on  account  of 
the  scarlet  fever,  which  had  only  recently  finished 
peeling  off,  that  Kit  had  to  have  mountain  air. 
And  there  really  seemed  no  reason,  unless  it  was 
Lavinia  Luppy,  why  he  shouldn't  have  it  at  Bandy's 
Flat. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT  3 

I  had  been  skeptical  at  first  about  Lavinia  Luppy, 
because  parents  who  would  add  Lavinia  to  Luppy 
seemed  incredible.  I  was  convinced  of  her  existence 
by  a  letter,  answering  mine  to  her,  and  consenting 
to  receive  us  as  boarders  during  good  behavior. 
You  inferred  that  she  didn't  expect  to  keep  us  long. 

Arabella  lent  us  the  car  and  Miss  Spence,  who 
was  to  deliver  us  into  Miss  Luppy's  hands.  We  left 
San  Francisco  in  the  afternoon,  spent  the  night  in 
a  sweltering  valley  town,  and  traveled  on  next  day 
into  the  mountains.  If  you  had  asked  me  at  the 
time  I  should  have  said  the  trip  was  uneventful,  for 
I  was  unwilling  to  concede  any  importance  to  what 
happened  at  Golconda.  It  was  an  episode  which, 
like  the  scorpion,  carried  its  sting  in  its  tail,  for  I 
could  have  borne  the  recollection  well  enough  if 
it  had  not  been  for  that  last  deplorable  moment.  I 
might  even  have  admitted  to  a  certain  interest  in 
hearing  about  a  train  robbery  from  a  person  who 
had  been  in  it.  As  it  was,  I  preferred  to  forget. 

Golconda  is  twenty  miles  from  Bandy's,  a  size 
larger  and  a  degree  less  slumberous.  We  had 
reached  it  about  midday,  and  in  view  of  the  hot  and 
bumpy  road  ahead  decided  on  lunch  at  the  cool  old 
brick  hotel.  We  were  lunching,  dining  rather,  on 
fried  steak  surrounded  by  a  lot  of  little  dishes  like 


4  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

bird-bathtubs  containing  various  uneatables,  when 
a  young  man  entered  the  dining-room  and  was 
conducted  by  the  frizzy  waitress  to  the  table  next  our 
own.  He  was  a  tall  young  man  and  he  wore  clothes 
of  an  urban  cut,  though  his  tan  and  a  breezy  outdoor 
air  about  him  would  have  gone  better,  I  thought, 
with  corduroy  or  khaki.  The  waitress  seemed  to 
know  him,  and  buzzed  about  assiduously,  whereas  to 
us  she  had  been  haughty,  and  stood  patting  her 
coiffure  and  staring  into  vacancy,  whence  we  had 
with  difficulty  recalled  her.  Departing  with  his 
order,  she  returned  with  it  promptly — it  was  more 
fried  steak  and  bird-bathtubs — and  set  it  before  him 
to  the  accompaniment  of  exclamation : 

"Well,  I  never!  Wouldn't  it  jar  you?  I  was  jest 
hearin'  about  it  out  in  the  kitchen.  Say,  did  they 
get  so  very  much  off  you?" 

"Much?  Oh,  no,  only  that  million  I  usually 
carry  about  me,"  retorted  the  young  man  cheerfully, 
but  with  the  evident  intention  of  saying  no  more. 
The  frizzy  waitress,  after  an  interval  of  vague  hov 
ering,  retired.  Then  the  hotel  proprietor  lounged 
in,  and  approaching  the  young  man's  table  reversed 
one  of  the  vacant  chairs  and  seated  himself  astride 
it,  his  crossed  arms  resting  on  the  back. 

"Well,  wouldn't  it  get  you?"  he  remarked,  in  the 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT     5 

drawl  which  seems  part  of  the  general  leisureliness 
of  the  mountain  people.  "Jim — that's  drivin'  the 
Lone  Pine  stage  to-day,  you  know — was  jest  tellin' 
me.  Held  up  the  Overland,  by  gum!  You  say 
there  was  three  of  'em?" 

The  young  man  had  not  said  anything,  but  he 
nodded  assent  to  this. 

"And  one  got  plugged  and  that  scared  'em  off, 
hey?  And  it  happened  jest  before  daylight,  down 
where  the  pass  narrows  there  between  the  hills? 
Held — up — the — Overland,  by  gum !  Say,  that  was 
nervy !  And  you  was  up  and  dressed  on  account  of 
havin'  to  git  off  pretty  soon  to  take  the  stage  ?  Say, 
that  was  better  anyway  than  waltzin'  round  in 
your — "  Here  the  speaker  glanced  at  us  and  dis 
creetly  coughed  aside  behind  his  hand.  The  young 
man  also  glanced  at  us.  I  had  been  aware,  out  of 
the  corner  of  my  eye,  of  his  doing  it  before.  Now 
he  met  squarely  my  absorbed  and  self-forgetful 
gaze.  All  three  of  us,  indeed,  ignoring  manners 
altogether,  sat  there  frankly  staring,  frankly  drink 
ing  in  the  tale  which  the  hotel  man  was  less  elicit 
ing  than  relating,  for  the  young  man's  part  in  it  had 
been  only  a  series  of  confirmatory  nods.  He  seemed 
rather  disappointingly  unwilling,  in  fact,  to  make 
the  most  of  his  great  experience,  to  live  up  to  its 


6  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

dramatic  possibilities.  For  myself,  I  was  so  keenly, 
tinglingly,  aware  of  them  that  I  was  regarding  the 
young  man  not  only  with  awe  and  interest,  but  an 
excited  kind  of  envy.  All  this,  I  dare  say,  was  in 
my  eyes  when  the  young  man  looked  up  and  met 
them.  His  own  were  blue,  so  blue  that  they  made 
a  surprising  note  of  color  in  his  brown  face.  They 
looked  at  me  clearly,  directly,  and — oh,  bitterness! 
— amusedly.  They  said  as  plainly  as  eyes  could  say 
it,  "Pretty,  but  how  young!''  To  understand  how 
I  felt  about  this  you  would  have  to  understand  about 
Arabella,  and  the  struggle  I  had  had  to  be  recog 
nized  as  grown-up,  and  to  escape  from  utterly 
juvenile  modes  in  clothes  and  hair.  Of  course 
I  knew  what  had  brought  this  look  into  his 
eyes;  it  was  the  absolutely  thrilled  wonder  in 
my  own.  Arabella,  for  instance,  would  never  have 
stared  at  a  stranger  like  that.  She  could  stare,  of 
course,  but  in  a  fashion  that  made  you  feel  yourself 
merely  a  queer,  rather  unpleasant  animal  in  a  zoo. 
I  could  hear  her  now  remarking,  apropos  of  this 
naive  performance,  "My  dear  Sally,  you  looked  ten, 
just  ten  and  not  a  day  beyond!"  And  to  the 
stranger  too,  of  course,  I  had  appeared  as  a  silly, 
even  an  ill-mannered  child.  The  color  burned  in 
my  cheeks,  and  I  saw  the  effect  in  the  deepening 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT  7 

amusement  of  his  gaze.  I  felt  that  I  hated  blue 
eyes,  though  hitherto  on  account  of  having  brown 
myself  the  Ideal  had  always  been  endowed  with 
them.  Recovering,  I  averted  my  face  coldly  and 
returned  to  my  dining,  with  the  air — I  hoped — of 
dismissing  trifles  like  train-robberies  from  my 
mind.  But  Kit  and  Miss  Spence  continued  frankly 
to  display  their  absurd  interest  in  what  was  going 
on  at  the  next  table,  while  my  ears,  entirely  of  their 
own  accord,  persisted  in  informing  me  of  the  rest  of 
the  conversation. 

"Jim  tells  me — gittin'  it  from  you,  o'  course — that 
they  didn't  make  no  great  haul — says  they  hadn't 
more'n  gone  through  the  first  sleeper  when  the 
brakeman,  what  had  managed  to  drop  off  the  rear 
end  of  the  train,  crep'  up  and  plugged  the  feller 
what  was  watchin'  the  crew.  And  then  the  others 
got  scared  and  lit  out — that's  how  Jim  tells  it." 

"Well,  that's  straight,  I  guess,"  conceded  the 
young  man  detachedly.  He  had  a  rather  nice  voice. 

"But  it  warn't  quite  soon  enough  for  you,  I 
understand — you  was  one  o'  them  that  got  stood 
up,  Jim  says,"  pursued  the  hotel  man,  evidently 
gratified  that  such  a  distinction  had  fallen  to  a 
guest  in  his  house. 

"Right  again,"  said  the  stranger,  still  detachedly. 


8  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"Hard  luck!  Did  you  lose  heavy?"  No  keeper 
of  a  country  hotel  could  afford  to  be  less  than  letter- 
perfect  in  such  a  piece  of  news. 

There  was  a  pause,  so  perceptible  that  I  glanced 
the  young  man's  way  before  I  could  remember  not 
to.  He  was  looking  not  at  me  but  at  a  radish  he 
was  somewhat  meticulously  paring. 

"Oh,  I  got  off  rather  easily,  I  suppose.  Hadn't 
much  money  about  me,  and  the  watch  I  was  wear 
ing  was  a  cheap  thing.  About  all  they  got  was  my 
wallet " 

"With  nothin'  in  it?'*  inquired  the  other  dis 
appointedly. 

"Well,  not  exactly.  There  was  a — a  paper  I  was 
sorry  to  lose,"  replied  the  young  man,  then  abruptly 
got  up  from  the  table.  "No  more,  thanks — have  to 
be  getting  along."  He  left  the  dining-room  in  the 
midst  of  the  host's  assurances  that  Jim  never  pulled 
out  till  the  stroke  of  one. 

When  I  went  out  on  the  veranda  a  few  moments 
later  after  settling  our  bill  with  the  proprietor's 
very  deaf  wife  I  came  on  a  tableau  consisting  of  the 
stranger  and  Kit,  who  was  planted  before  him  with 
his  feet  apart,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  eyes 
fixed  absorbedly  on  the  other's  face.  The  stranger 
was  lighting  a  pipe,  which  operation  accomplished 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT  9 

* 

he  put  it  in  his  mouth  and  looked  down  at  Kit  with 
gravity. 

"Well?"  he  inquired. 

"If  I'd  'a'  been  you/5  replied  my  brother,  "I'd  'a' 
just  soaked  that  fellow  one.  Right  when  he  reached 
for  my  wallet,  you  know— just  soaked  him  one  on 
the  jaw — like  that."  Kit  illustrated  on  his  own 
chin. 

"But  the  fellow  had  a  gun,"  the  stranger  objected, 
"and  his  partner  who  was  standing  guard  had  an 
other.  I  suspect  I'd  have  got  the  worst  of  it,  don't 
you  know  ?" 

Kit  shook  his  head.  "You'd  V  had  to  be  awful 
quick,"  he  conceded,  "but  you  could  'a'  done  it — 
knocked  that  one  out,  and  then  kind  of  dodged 
when  the  other  one  shot,  and  run  in  on  him',  and 
knocked  him  out  too.  Fellows  have — in  books." 

"In  books/'  admitted  the  stranger,  "it  could  be 
pulled  off  very  easily,  I  don't  doubt.  The  trouble 
is,  the  hold-up  men  might  have  played  the  game  dif 
ferently — not  according  to  the  books,  you  know. 
And  then  I  shouldn't  have  been  here  considering 
the  question  with  you  now." 

Here  Nishi  drove  up  with  the  car  and  Miss  Spence 
came  out  of  the  hotel,  after  her  third  excursion  to 
the  dining-room  for  a  parcel  left  behind.  As  Kit 


io         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

ignored  these  preparations  for  departure  I  was 
obliged  to  call  to  him  by  name.  He  looked  up — so 
did  the  young  man.  Again  his  eyes  met  mine,  and 
I  saw  again  that  they  were  very  blue,  and  very  clear 
and  direct,  and  again  they  gave  me  unmistakably 
the  message  they  had  before — at  least  the  first  part 
of  it.  I  averted  my  own  at  once,  and  walked  with 
dignity  toward  the  waiting  car.  It  was  just  my 
luck,  of  course,  to  stub  my  toe  on  the  uneven  floor 
ing,  so  that  I  flew  in  at  the  open  car  door  and 
landed  in  a  heap  in  the  lap  of  Miss  Spence. 

"Goodness  alive!"  she  shrieked.  "Right  on  the 
pie,  too !  I  went  back  and  had  that  fuzzy  girl  do  up 
an  extry  slice  all  round,  'cause  it  did  seem  to  me  like 
we  hadn't  et  half  what  we  paid  for.  And  I  know 
you  young  things  can't  last  long  without  you  fill  up 
on  something." 

"Say,  you're  wise  all  right,"  contributed  Kit, 
climbing  into  the  front  seat  with  Nishi.  "You 
know,  I  think  I'll  take  my  piece  right  now,  and 
Sally's  too  if  she  don't  want  it.  You  don't,  Sis,  do 
you  ?"  he  inquired  optimistically. 

As  we  drove  off  I  hoped  the  town  of  Lone  Pine, 
for  which  I  understood  the  stranger  to  be  bound, 
was  at  least  a  million  miles  away — and  that  he 
would  never  return  from  it. 


CHAPTER  II 

AS  IN  the  melancholy  phrase  of  Miss  Spence, 
Bandy's  was  a  dead  town.  Dead  it  was,  and 
in  a  manner  preserved,  like  a  fly  in  amber,  in  a  kind 
of  soft  mellow  atmosphere  of  the  past  that  hung 
about  it.  A  mining  town  is,  literally,  built  on  dust,  at 
least  when  the  mines  are  of  the  type  that  once  made 
Bandy's  famous,  and  almost  inevitably  its  day  is  a 
swiftly  passing  one. 

On  two  sides  of  the  town,  and  extending  far  be- 
3'ond  it,  yawned  the  gray  abyss  of  the  old  hydraulic 
mines.  With  Bandy's  it  was  an  article  of  faith  that 
there  was  more  gold  in  them  still  than  was  ever 
taken  out,  and  that  was  many  millions.  From  the 
time  of  the  first  "strike"  in  the  'fifties  Bandy's  had 
known  an  abounding  prosperity  that  lasted  through 
several  decades,  but  a  time  had  come  at  last  when 
the  interests  of  the  farmers  in  the  valley  outweighed 
those  of  the  miners  in  the  hills,  and  a  state  law  was 
enacted  requiring  the  building  of  restraining  dams 
to  prevent  debris  from  the  hydraulic  operations  from 

II 


12         FpRTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

washing  down  the  rivers.  To  work  the  mines — 
from  which,  in  spite  of  Bandy's  obstinate  belief,  the 
cream  was  already  skimmed — in  compliance  with 
this  law  cut  too  heavily  into  profits,  and  they  were 
abandoned.  This  constituted  a  grievance  which  the 
remaining  population  of  the  town,  now  shrunk  like 
a  drying  pool  to  a  mere  sediment  of  old-timers  for 
whom  all  of  life  was  in  the  past,  spoke  of  with  deep 
and  vengeful  objurgations.  You  did  well  to  avoid 
the  topic. 

As  the  gold-bearing  formation  extended  under 
the  town,  a  good  part  of  it  had  been  cut  away  before 
the  mines  closed  down.  What  was  left  consisted  of 
one  short  shady  street  between  low  buildings 
of  dark  old  brick,  and  besides  this  a  score  or  two  of 
dwellings,  mostly  well-built  and  substantial,  with 
wide  porches  and  green  blinds,  and  old-fashioned 
gardens  enclosed  by  white  picket  fences.  The  house 
occupied  by  Miss  Luppy,  and  which  shone  inside 
and  out  with  paint  and  cleanliness,  was  the  most 
imposing.  It  had  been  built  by  Bandy,  otherwise 
Heber  Bates,  the  town's  godfather  and  long  its 
leading  citizen,  who  had  become  elevated  in  its 
memories  to  a  sort  of  patron-saintship.  Merely  to 
live  in  his  house  cast  a  reflected  glory  on  Miss 
Luppy,  which  she  didn't  in  the  least  need,  or  any 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT          13 

adventitious  aids  whatever.  Miss  Luppy  had  inher 
ited  from  her  cousin,  the  widow  of  Bandy  Bates, 
with,  whom  she  had  lived  during  the  old  lady's  last 
years,  the  house  and  other  property  in  the  town,  a 
quantity  of  now  worthless  mining-stock  which  had 
once  represented  a  comfortable  fortune,  and  a  sum 
otherwise  invested  which  brought  her  in  a  little 
income.  In  short,  the  entire  estate  of  the  widow 
had  been  left  to  her  companion  and  nurse.  But 
that  Bandy  Bates  should  have  died  possessed  of 
such,  after  all,  modest  wealth  was  what  the  town 
couldn't  understand  and  didn't  feel  inclined  to 
admit.  It  was  felt  to  be  a  flaw  in  his  character,  if 
true,  and  so  not  to  be  believed  in  by  the  devout. 
Facts  being  well  known  to  present  no  obstacles  to 
faith,  it  had  come  to  be  rather  generally  held  that  a 
good  part  of  the  Bates  wealth  had  been  "slipped  out 
o'  sight,"  though  by  whom  was  not  alleged. 

"Why,  Miss  Sally,"  said  Asa  Cobb  to  me,  "take 
all  the  ways  he'd  be'n  ladlin'  in  money  for  years  and 
years — take  the  profits  o'  that  there  saloon  alone !" 

I  looked  down  the  road  to  the  one-story  building 
indicated  by  Mr.  Cobb.  It  was  the  last  in  the  row 
on  the  east  side  of  the  shaded  street,  or  rather  stood 
separated  from  the  rest  by  an  intervening  grassy 
space.  A  few  feet  back  of  the  rear  wall  was  the  rim 


14         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

of  the  old  mine,  which  had  stopped  just  short  of 
engulfing  the  "business  section"  itself.  Like  half 
the  buildings  on  the  street,  this  was  unused,  and 
its  heavy  iron  doors  and  shutters  gave  it  a  grim  and 
forbidding  look. 

"Did  Mr.  Bates  own  a  saloon?"  I  asked,  some 
what  shocked. 

"He  did,  you  bet,  jest  like  he  owned  about  what 
ever  there  was  good  money  in  round  this  here 
town,"  said  Asa  Cobb  with  emphasis.  Asa  Cobb, 
by  the  way,  lived  in  a  cottage  next  door  to  us  and 
did  odd  jobs  for  Miss  Luppy.  "  'Twarn't  till  in  his 
last  years  that  he  commenced  to  draw  out  o'  things 
and  salt  his  money  away — at  least  folks  thought  so 
— where  'twould  be  easy  got  at.  He  hung  on  to 
the  saloon,  though — didn't  rent  it  out,  neither,  but 
hired  Brett  Morgan  to  run  it  for  him.  Gentleman 
Brett,  folks  called  him,  account  of  him  lettin'  on 
about  comin'  o'  good  stock  back  in  the  South.  Then 
one  night  there  was  a  row,  and  Brett  he  got  filled 
full  o'  lead — laid  right  down  and  croaked  behind 
his  own  bar." 

"You  mean  Mrs.  Morgan's  Husband?"  I  inter 
rupted.  Mrs.  Morgan  was  a  woman  who  lived 
alone  in  a  shabby  house  on  the  same  side  of  the  road 
as  ours,  about  opposite  the  old  saloon. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         15 

"That's  the  party,"  Mr.  Cobb  confirmed.  "Well, 
after  Brett  croaked  there  was  a  plenty  others  would 
V  be'n  glad  to  'a'  took  the  job,  but  Bandy  he  up  and 
says  he's  quit  the  saloon  game  for  good  and  the 
place  is  goin'  to  be  closed,  he  says.  It  did  most 
seem!  like  the  old  gentleman  had  kind  of  got  religion 
or  somethin'  in  his  declinin'  days.  Or  mebbe  he 
foreseen  what  was  comin'  more'n  twenty-five  years 
later  in  the  way  of  a  dry  spell  and  wanted  to  be  a 
leetle  ahead  o'  the  style — he  allus  did  like  to  take 
the  lead  in  things.  Anyway,  he  closed  up  the  saloon 
all  right,  not  sellin'  off  the  fixtures  nor  nothin'  but 
leavin'  'em  jest  like  they  was.  Said  he  didn't  cal- 
c'ate  on  makin'  money  out  o'  nothin'  connected  with 
the  liquor  traffic  no  more.  All  the  same  he  used 
to  put  in  a  good  sight  o'  time  tinkerin'  round  and 
gittin'  the  place  in  repair,  like  he  might  'a'  counted 
on  openin'  up  again  some  day,  after  all.  He  hated 
to  see  good  money  git  away  from  him,  did  Bandy. 
He  was  workin'  round  there  a  good  while — I  expect 
he  thought  cuttin'  away  the  cliff  so  clost  to  the  back 
had  weakened  the  foundations  or  somethin',  and 
Bandy,  he  could  carpenter  or  lay  a  brick  in  mortar 
as  handy  as  the  next — seemed  like  he  was  the  kind 
things  just  natcherally  come  easy  to.  Anyway,  he 
was  in  there  all  alone  when  he  took  the  fit  he  died  of. 


16        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Mis'  Bates  she  had  went  over  to  look  on  account  o' 
his  not  showin'  up  at  supper,  and  there  he  was, 
layin'  by  the  door,  like  he'd  tried  to  git  to  the  air 
and  couldn't.  He  warn't  dead  but  might  as  well  'a* 
be'n,  for  he  never  rightly  come  to  and  died  next 
day.  Mis'  Cobb,  she  was  livin'  then  and  went  in 
neighbor-like  to  help.  She  said  it  was  a  real  awful 
sight  to  see  him  try  like  he  did  to  speak  and  not  be 
able.  Said  it  seemed  like  he'd  'most  bu'st  with 
tryin'.  But  all  they  was  ever  able  to  make  out  was 
once  when  she  and  Mis'  Bates  was  leanin'  over  him 
he  sez,  in  a  kind  o'  thick,  mumblin'  way,  'Is  it  shut?' 
he  sez?  'Do  you  mean  the  winder,  Heber?'  sez 
Mis'  Bates.  Mis'  Cobb  said  'twar  an  awful  thing 
to  see  him  roll  his  eyes  and  struggle,  tryin'  to 
answer.  'Twar  so  plain  it  warn't  the  winder  that 
she  put  in  on  her  own  hook.  'Do  you  mean  the 
door,  Mr.  Bates?'  she  sez.  She  told  afterwards 
that  the  look  he  give  her  was  enough  to  make  her 
teeth  chatter  only  to  remember  it.  Seemed  like  he 
would  'a'  gave  his  immortal  soul  to  be  able  to  set  up 
and  damn-fool  'em  both  jest  once.  He  was  a  pretty 
short-tempered  man,  old  Bandy.  And  o'  course  it 
must  'a'  be'n  tryin'  to  a  party  with  somethin'  on  his 
mind,  allowin'  he  had,  to  have  them  couple  o' 
women  no  better  able  to  help  him  git  it  off  than 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT          17 

that.  Anyway,  whether  gittin'  mad  hastened  the 
end,  or  what,  he  died  pretty  soon  after.  And  Mis' 
Cobb,  havin'  the  natural  female  vice  o'  curiosity 
about  as  strong  as  ever  I  see,  never  to  the  last 
stopped  guessin'  what  it  was  that  Bandy  Bates  had 
wanted  to  be  shut.  She's  woke  me  up  in  the  night 
more'n  once  to  ask  did  I  think  it  could  'a'  be'n  this, 
or  that,  or  t'other  thing.  'Woman,'  I  sez  at  last, 
'if  he'd  'a'  be'n  in  my  socks  the  thing  he'd  'a'  wanted 
shut  would  'a'  be'n  your  mouth!'  But  she  sez — " 

The  arrival  of  Kit  cut  short  this  flow  of 
reminiscence.  We  were  going  to  ride  that  morn 
ing,  and  the  ponies  were  standing  hitched  to  the 
fence  in  the  road  outside.  They  had  been  hired  for 
our  use  from  a  ranch  down  toward  Golconda,  and 
were  housed  in  the  stable  which  had  stood  empty 
since  the  day  of  Bandy  Bates  and  his  high  steppers, 
still  proudly  remembered  by  the  town.  Asa  Cobb 
had  been  engaged  to  care  for  them,  and  by  a  dis 
play  of  equine  wisdom  unaccountable  to  those  who 
had  known  him  in  a  long  life-time  to  possess  only 
a  single  rickety  old  mare,  he  had  completely  fasci 
nated  Kit,  who  had  formed  with  him  an  alliance 
offensive  and  defensive,  especially  against  the 
female  sex,  of  which  Mr.  Cobb  was  a  professed 
contemner.  Kit's  devotion  went  to  such  lengths 


i8         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

that  almost  any  morning  you  might  have  found  the 
elderly  misogynist  seated  at  ease  in  the  shade,  smok 
ing  a  blackened  pipe  and  drawling  out  his  endless 
anecdotes,  while  Kit  vigorously  curried  the  ponies  or 
performed  the  other  chores  for  which  Mr.  Cobb 
drew  a  rather  liberal  monthly  stipend. 

We  had  now  been  a  week  at  Bandy's.  Miss 
Spence,  Nishi  and  the  car,  had  of  course  departed, 
and  except  for  the  tri-weekly  arrival  of  the  Gol- 
conda  stage  we  seemed  detached  from  the  world  as 
if  on  a  separate  star.  That  Mis'  Pettis's  cow  had 
strayed,  or  Jem  Hicks,  the  cobbler,  had  suffered 
from  lumbago  in  the  night,  or  the  kitchen  boiler 
burst  at  the  Bonanza  House,  was  of  moment  to  us 
as  well  as  to  the  town,  so  had  our  interests  shrunk 
to  suit  its  narrow  limits.  Was  it  only  nine  days 
since  we  had  left  San  Francisco,  and  was  life  going 
on  there  in  its  usual  head-long  fashion,  and  in  many 
and  many  another  bustling  town  besides  ?  Up  here 
in  the  hot  still  sunshine,  among  the  unchanging 
mountains,  with  Bandy's  steeped  in  dreams  of  its 
golden  past,  it  seemed  impossible.  Life  was  no 
more  a  race  to  a  goal,  but  a  drowsing  in  the  sun 
until  the  day  was  over. 

I  pursued  the  above  reflections  as  we  rode  that 
bright  hot  morning  down  the  trail  which  descended 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         19 

into  the  mine  to  the  east  of  the  town  on  its  way  to 
the  river  in  the  canon  beyond.  Across  the  river  rose 
the  steep  height  known  as  Gantry's  Hill,  though  why 
Gantry's  I  don't  know,  or  why  hill,  for  it  was  really 
a  respectable  mountain.  Its  western  front,  which 
we  saw  from  the  town,  was  rather  sparsely  and 
irregularly  wooded,  scattering  timber  alternating 
with  wide  patches  of  manzanita  scrub.  Here  and 
there  a  landslide  had  left  a  great  white  scar,  still 
tinhealed  and  raw,  slashed  in  the  face  of  the  hill. 

Above  such  a  scar,  high  up  on  the  ascent,  was  a 
shelf,  where  stood  a  cluster  of  deserted  cabins 
known  as  Little  York.  Long  ago  Little  York  had 
had  its  day  of  fame,  but  the  strike  turning  out  to  be 
merely  a  pocket  the  place  was  soon  abandoned. 
Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  shone  full  upon 
them,  the  cabins  could  be  indistinctly  seen  from 
Bandy's  Flat,  rising  above  the  chaparral  which  grew 
about  them  thickly.  They  looked  picturesque,  and 
romantic,  and  lonely,  and  I  had  been  wanting  to  see 
them  at  close  range.  And  as  riding  was  part  of 
the  regimen  at  Bandy's,  we  might  as  well  ride  to 
Little  York  as  elsewhere. 

We  followed  the  path  across  the  mine,  where  the 
bare  scorched  soil  lay  white  as  dead  bones  in  the 
glare  of  the  hot  mountain  sunshine,  dropped  steeply 


20         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

into  the  river  canon,  passed  the  clear  stream  at  the 
ford,  and  took  the  trail  up  Gantry's  Hill.  It  was  a 
long  winding  way,  looping  confusedly  back  and 
forth  across  the  mountain's  face,  but  we  knew  when 
we  had  got  to  Little  York  by  a  certain  tall  dead 
pine,  whose  bleached  nakedness  made  it  a  landmark 
from  the  Flat.  The  cabins  themselves  were  hidden 
by  brush  and  timber.  The  manzanita  scrub  had 
grown  across  the  path  which  turned  in  to  the  cabins 
from  the  main  trail,  so  that  Kit  and  I,  leaving  the 
ponies,  had  to  force  our  way  through  and  under  the 
low  tough  branches  with  their  strange,  smooth  red 
bark  and  pale  green  leaves.  But  at  the  first  of  the 
group  of  cabins  the  path  became  open.  It  was  a 
low,  weather-stained  little  shack,  but  so  sheltered 
by  the  great  arms  of  the  oak  that  grew  above  it  that 
even  the  glass  in  the  window  was  unbroken.  The 
door  was  closed,  and  it  looked  so  secret  and  melan 
choly  and  forsaken  that  I  picked  it  out  at  once  as 
the  abode  of  that  last  discouraged  miner  who,  tradi 
tion  said,  having  consumed  his  final  bean  and  pos 
sessing  not  a  grain  of  golden  dust  to  buy  another, 
had  whetted  his  razor,  sat  down  on  his  door-step 
with  a  mirror  propped  before  him,  and  scientifically 
cut  his  throat. 

I  imparted  this  conviction  to  Kit,  who  looked 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         21 

exceedingly  uncomfortable.  Somehow  I  was  not 
exactly  comfortable  myself.  Even  in  broad  day 
light  and  with  company  it  seemed  a  splendid  place 
for  seeing  ghosts.  You  had  a  queer  sense  of  a  lis 
tening,  watching  something  that  had  just  withdrawn 
and  would  return  when  you  had  taken  your 
departure.  Perhaps  this  was  the  reason,  though  at 
the  time  I  called  it  snakes,  why  I  hung  back,  instead 
of  going  on  to  explore  the  three  or  four  cabins 
beyond.  And  Kit  with  unusual  brotherly  devotion 
kept  close  at  my  side.  Except  for  that  undefinable 
sense  of  a  watching  presence,  the  place  seemed 
unspeakably  remote  and  lonely — so  much  more 
lonely  than  if  the  deserted  cabins  had  not  been 
there.  Probably  no  one  had  visited  the  place  in 
years — 

"Gee,  look  here!"  exclaimed  Kit,  pouncing  sud 
denly  on  something  in  the  path. 
>  "What?"  I  cried  in  a  small  breathy  voice,  start 
ing  violently. 

It  was  a  half-smoked  cigarette.  "Made  by  a  fel 
low  that  rolls  his  own,"  announced  Kit  judicially, 
offering  it  for  my  inspection.  It  might  have  lain 
there  hours,  it  might  have  lain  there  days,  but  it 
certainly  had  not  lain  there  years.  Little  York  had 
had  a  visitor  besides  ourselves,  very  recently. 


22         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"Say,  do  you  imagine  the  guy  that  left  it  is 
around  here  now?"  demanded  Kit  with  an  uneasy 
air,  as  though  connecting  the  find  in  some  way  with 
the  miner  of  the  melancholy  legend. 

"I  don't  know — but  if  he  is  why  should  he  hide?" 
I  replied  in  a  low  voice,  looking  about  distrustfully. 
"Of  course,  though,  he  isn't,"  I  added  with  more 
confidence.  When  you  thought  of  it,  there  was 
nothing  particularly  portentous  in  some  one's  hav 
ing  dropped  in  here  lately,  perhaps  from  a  curiosity 
like  our  own.  To  be  sure  it  would  be  no  one  from 
the  Flat;  nobody  there  was  curious  about  Little 
York.  And  there  were  likely  to  be  few  strangers 
in  the  neighborhood,  which  was  quite  out  of  the 
tourist  beat.  Nevertheless,  here  was  the  cigarette 
to  prove  that  somebody  had  been  here,  and  common 
sense  to  suggest  that  it  was  without  doubt  for  some 
very  ordinary  reason.  And  at  the  same  time  there 
was  that  queer  uneasiness  which  I  had  had  from  the 
beginning. 

"There's  no  one  here,  of  course — not  that  it 
would  matter  if  there  were,"  I  went  on  bravely. 
"But  we've  seen  the  place,  haven't  we,  so  what's  the 
good  in  hanging  round?" 

Kit,  with  alacrity,  agreed  that  there  was  no  good 
in  hanging  round,  and  turned  to  depart  before  an 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         23 

apparition  with  a  bloody  throat  and  threatening 
razor  should  materialize.  I  followed,  but  on  the 
edge  of  plunging  into  the  brush  I  paused  and  looked 
back.  The  path,  the  cabins,  and  the  surrounding 
thicket  lay  silent  in  the  sun.  Nothing  stirred  but  a 
tiny  darting  lizard,  nothing  made  sound  but  a  bird 
that  softly  twittered  from  the  oak.  And  yet  as  I 
stood  there  listening  and  looking,  there  came  to  me 
again,  more  sharply  and  distinctly,  the  sense  that 
I  was  watched. 

I  turned  and  hurried  after  Kit  with  a  precipita 
tion  that  brought  me  breathless  and  panting  to  the 
trail. 

It  was  early  twilight,  and  I  was  strolling  in  the 
garden  in  a  tranquil  after-supper  mood,  enjoying 
the  cool  fragrance  of  the  air  after  the  burning  day, 
when  the  voice  of  Miss  Luppy  sounded  from  the 
house.  "Sally,  Sally!"  it  called.  Note  the  infor 
mality.  I  had  arrived  at  Bandy's  with  the  firm  deter 
mination  to  be  Miss  Armsby  to  Lavinia  Luppy  and 
to  be  treated  generally  as  a  grown-up  person.  And 
here  I  was  plain  Sally  and  with  my  expected  inde 
pendence  crushed  under  the  benevolent  despotism 
of  Miss  Luppy.  Benevolent,  that  is,  if  you  delved 
beneath  the  surface  and  considered  essentials 


24         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

rather  than  grim  appearances.  Kit,  for  instance, 
though  addressed  disparagingly  as  Boy,  and  having 
the  sinfulness  of  boys  in  general  frequently 
brought  to  his  attention,  was  not  otherwise  mal 
treated.  Certain  immutable  laws  there  were,  such 
as  entering  at  the  side  door  instead  of  the  sacred 
and  taboo  front,  giving  his  shoes  three  wipes  apiece 
on  the  mat,  and  refraining  from  harsh  and  sudden 
words  and  gestures  in  the  immediate  neighborhood 
of  the  cat.  These  edicts,  greatly  to  his  own  aston 
ishment — you  saw  it  in  his  round  green  eyes — Kit 
obeyed,  and  obeying  flourished.  As  approval  of  his 
conduct  resulted  generally  in  an  extra  thick 
chocolate  cake  or  pie  with  more  cream  heaped  over 
it  than  usual,  Kit  was  exhibiting  staying  powers  in 
the  way  of  virtue  which  would  have  alarmed  me  if 
bulging  cheeks  and  expanding  calves  had  not  been 
an  accompaniment.  And  then  in  respect  to  myself 
his  behavior  remained  distinctly  and  comfortingly 
natural. 

Obeying  Miss  Luppy's  summons,  I  found  myself 
the  appointed  bearer  of  certain  cup-cakes  uncon- 
sumed  at  supper  to  the  Mrs.  Morgan  in  the  shabby 
house  opposite  the  old  saloon.  Carrying  a  plate 
covered  with  a  napkin  I  crossed  the  lane  at  the  cor 
ner  of  our  house  and  an  intervening  stretch  of  grass 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         25 

to  the  side  gate  of  Mrs.  Morgan's  place.  As  I 
entered  the  yard  I  glanced  across  the  road  to  the  old 
brick  building,  and  wondered  how  the  widow 
enjoyed  having  perpetually  before  her  eyes  this 
reminder  of  her  husband's  tragic  end.  As  much, 
though,  very  likely,  as  she  enjoyed  any  other  fea 
ture  of  her  bleak  life — or  bleak  at  least  it  seemed 
to  me.  Mrs.  Morgan  was  comparatively  of  the 
younger  generation  at  the  Flat,  being  somewhere  in 
the  fifties.  I  had  met  her  the  other  day  in  Miss 
Luppy's  kitchen,  where  she  had  come  with  a  present 
of  honey,  for  which  the  cup-cakes  were  a  return. 

The  lamp  was  already  lighted  in  the  kitchen,  and 
when  I  looked  in  at  the  open  door  I  saw  her  at 
work  over  some  mending.  She  was  thin  and  dark, 
with  black  somber  eyes  and  heavy  iron-gray  hair. 
The  black  eyes  and  olive  skin  she  had  inherited 
from  a  Spanish-Californian  mother,  as  well  as,  per 
haps,  a  certain  dignity,  even  stateliness  of  manner 
which  went  quaintly  with  her  shabby  dress  and 
worn  hard  hands.  It  is  strange  how  that  subtle  fine 
aroma  of  old  Spanish  pride  and  courtesy  will  hang 
about  the  descendants  of  the  race,  though  they  go 
beggared  in  the  land  that  the  stranger  possesses. 

She  received  me  with  apparent  pleasure  and 
exactly  the  right  amount  of  thanks  for  Miss  Luppy's 


26         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

gift.  A  ten-minute  call  served  to  exhaust  all  pos 
sible  topics  of  conversation,  and  I  had  risen  to  take 
leave  when  a  step  sounded  on  the  porch  outside.  I 
turned  quickly,  to  find  a  man  standing  in  the  dusky 
oblong  of  the  open  door. 

He  was  a  young  man,  dark  and  strongly  built. 
And  he  was  staring,  not  merely  into  the  room,  but 
with  concentration  and  intensity  at  me.  Even  in 
the  dim  light  the  eagerness  in  his  dark  eyes, 
shadowed  as  they  were  by  the  soft  hat  pulled 
low  over  level  black  brows,  showed  like  a  somber 
flame.  A  quick  instinctive  fear  stirred  in  me — fear 
of  what  I  didn't  know,  but  none  the  less  fear.  It 
brought  a  startled  exclamation  from  my  lips. 

Mrs.  Morgan  glanced  up  surprisedly,  then  rose 
with  a  sudden  flush  in  her  pale  cheeks  as  the  man 
stepped  into  the  room. 

"Brett,  my  boy!  Where  have  you  come  from — 
why  are  you  here?"  There  were  love  and  welcome 
in  the  cry,  but  there  was  something  else  as  well — 
a  sharp  note  of  apprehension.  She  went  toward  him 
quickly  and  he  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her 
— perhaps,  more  truly,  allowed  her  to  kiss  him.  For 
all  the  difference  in  their  years  he  was  so  like  her 
that  as  they  stood  side  by  side  I  wondered  that  I 
had  not  guessed  their  relationship  at  once.  After  a 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT,         27 

moment's  clinging  to  him  she  stood  with  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  looking  him  over  anxiously.  His 
clothes  and  boots  were  dusty,  his  face  unshaven,  and 
he  carried  a  bundle  on  his  back.  Plainly  this  was  a 
journey's  end. 

Having  accepted  his  mother's  embrace  he  turned 
to  me,  as  I  stood  waiting  my  chance  unobtrusively 
to  depart. 

"Will  you  make  me  acquainted  with  the  young 
lady,  madref"  He  took  off  his  dusty  hat  with  the 
sweep  of  a  cavalier.  His  intense  dark  gaze  dwelt 
on  me  avidly,  while  a  new  and  profoundly  uncom 
fortable  kind  of  self-consciousness  reddened  my 
cheeks. 

It  seemed  to  me  afterward  that  I  recalled  a  barely 
perceptible  movement  of  hesitation  before  Mrs. 
Morgan  complied. 

"Miss  Armsby,  I'll  make  you  acquainted  with  my 
son."  Her  son  again  bowed  sweepingly.  "Miss 
Armsby  is  stayin'  a  while  at  Miss  Luppy's,"  she 
continued,  looking  at  me  with  a  faint  shade  as  of 
uneasiness  in  her  face.  I  had  a  sudden  conviction 
that  Mrs.  Morgan  would  willingly  have  foregone 
the  cup-cakes  to  have  had  me  elsewhere  at  that 
moment. 

"Then  the  Flat's  havin'  some  good  luck  at  last," 


28         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

he  declared  gallantly.  A  warmer  flame  leaped  into 
his  predatory  gaze,  and  I  felt  again  the  power  he 
had  of  sending  forth  his  emotions  to  play  upon  you 
in  a  vivid  and  disturbing  glow.  "Stayin'  long?" 
he  inquired  meaningly. 

"I  don't  know — perhaps/'  I  replied,  with  a  con 
fusion  for  which  I  scorned  myself,  yet  couldn't 
help.  I  wished  intensely  that  I  had  understudied 
Arabella  a  little  more.  No  young  man  with  the 
clothes  and  the  accent  and  the  origin  of  this  one 
could  have  confused  her  for  a  moment.  She  would 
have  been  able  to  command  exactly  the  right  glance 
and  gesture  to  indicate  to  him  his  utter  insignifi 
cance  in  the  scheme  of  things.  And  yet — in  that 
virile  disturbing  presence  I  doubted  the  success 
of  even  Arabella's  methods. 

"I  must  go  now,  Mrs.  Morgan,"  I  added  hastily. 
"Oh,  indeed  I  must!"  for  Brett  Morgan  had  begun 
gallantly  to  demur.  He  was  between  me  and  the 
door,  but  I  was  edging  toward  it  so  determinedly 
that  he  couldn't,  without  actually  laying  hands  on 
me,  prevent  my  reaching  it.  I  did  reach  it,  and  with 
a  "Good  night!"  called  over  my  shoulder  slipped 
through  in  one  swift  dart. 

When  I  reached  home  I  found  Miss  Luppy,  with 
her  usual  forehandedness,  setting  the  table  for  to- 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         29 

morrow's  breakfast.  She  was  a  tall  woman,  with 
the  style  of  figure  usually  called  comfortable,  but 
prevented  from  being  so  in  her  case  by  the  uncom 
promising  rigidity  of  her  spine.  I  used  to  wonder 
whether  it  remained  just  as  rigid  and  unbending 
even  when  she  was  in  bed.  Her  face  was  not 
unhandsome  in  a  grim  fashion.  She  wore  her  hair 
combed  plain  and  smooth  above  the  ears  and  done 
into  a  tight  little  bun  at  the  back.  She  had  large 
shapely  hands  and  a  firm  tread.  Such  was  Lavinia 
Luppy. 

She  turned  on  me  the  bleak  gray  eye  which 
seemed  to  impale  you  and  hold  you  up  for  inspec 
tion  like  an  insect  on  a  pin. 

"Well?"  she  demanded,  with  her  usual  air  of 
implying,  What  have  you  been  up  to  now? 

"I  took  the  cakes  to  Mrs.  Morgan,"  I  reported, 
"and  while  I  was  there  her  son  came  home."  It 
sounded  simple  enough  in  narration,  and  my  per 
turbation  seemed  the  more  absurd  in  consequence. 
Already  I  was  wondering,  with  some  self-contempt, 
why  I  hadn't  been  able  to  face  this  of  course  impos 
sible  and  insignificant  person  with  the  proper  con 
fidence  in  my  own  superiority. 

Miss  Luppy  paused  in  the  act  of  setting  a  salt- 


30         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

shaker  with  mathematical  exactness  in  the  center  of 
a  crocheted  mat. 

"What  say?"  she  asked  sharply. 

I  repeated  my  statement.  Miss  Luppy  set  down 
the  shaker  and  turned  round.  There  was  a  frown 
between  her  brows. 

"How'd  he  git  here?"  she  demanded.  "This 
ain't  stage-day — and  there  don't  even  wagons  come 
in  late  as  this/' 

"I  suppose  he  walked  from  somewhere.  He  was 
dusty,  and  he  had  a  bundle." 

"Has  he  come  to  stay  a  while  ?" 

"I  don't  know."  And  then,  remembering  the  in 
ference  that  might  be  drawn  from  his  having  asked 
very  nearly  the  same  question  of  me,  "I  rather  think 
so,"  I  amended. 

She  meditated,  automatically  straightening  a  fork 
that  diverged  slightly  from  a  right-angle  with  the 
table-edge.  "Wonder  what's  brought  him  back?" 
she  inquired,  apparently  of  the  universe  in  general. 
"Of  course,"  she  added,  "it's  likely  he'll  go  off 
again  pretty  quick — he  most  generally  does.  If  he 
shouldn't,  though — there,  I  might  as  well  say  it 
first  as  last — I  don't  know  as  I'd  let  him  git  extra 
friendly.  There  ain't  much  in  special  I  can  say 
against  him,  only  that  Brett  was  always  what  you'd 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         31 

call  a  wild  boy.  If  he'd  been  trained  different — but 
then  he  warn't,  nor  couldn't  be,  I  guess,  with  no 
father.  Anyway,  wild  Brett  always  was,  and — well, 
I  jest  wouldn't  let  him  make  up  to  me  too  much, 
that's  all." 

What  I  would  have  valued  even  more  than  this 
advice  was  a  hint  as  to  how  I  was  successfully  to 
follow  it. 


CHAPTER  III 

FROM  the  high  wooded  ridge  to  the  south  of 
Bandy's  a  long  spur  slopes  down  behind  the 
town,  crowding  it  into  the  little  irregular  patch  of 
level  land  which  remains  of  the  flat.  The  back  gate 
of  Miss  Luppy's  premises  opened  on  a  path  which 
climbed  this  hill,  first  through  pasture  where  her 
cow  grew  sleek,  then  in  the  shade  of  heavy  woods. 
As  you  ascended  you  became  aware  of  a  low  con 
tinuous  sound  which  deepened  into  a  gurgling  rush 
and  roar,  and  presently  you  came  on  the  flume 
which  brought  the  water  of  streams  far  back  among 
the  mountains  to  fulfill  a  utilitarian  destiny  in 
turning  the  wheels  of  distant  power-plants  and 
irrigating  the  sun-burned  fields  of  the  lowlands. 
Once  it  had  turned  aside  to  enter  the  great  pipe 
from  which  it  had  issued  in  a  glittering  rigid  shaft, 
mighty  to  cut  away  mountains  and  leave  in  their 
stead  the  vast  excavation  which  surrounded  Bandy's. 
Now,  except  for  the  small  dole  which  met  the 
town's  diminished  needs,  the  torrent  roared  past 

32 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT          33 

without  pause.  The  system  of  flumes  was  compli 
cated;  you  were  always  coming  on  them  in  the 
woods,v  or  viewing  from  afar  their  course  along 
some  distant  mountainside,  where  they  seemed 
to  hang  in  the  airiest  fashion  high  up  among 
the  tree-tops.  They  offered  immense  possibilities 
if  you  were  of  an  exploring  turn,  for  planks  loosely 
laid  on  the  cross-pieces  above  the  water  provided  a 
convenient  footway,  at  least  for  persons  indifferent 
to  its  wabbliness  and  the  ever-present  chance  of  a 
plunge  into  the  smooth,  dark,  arrow-swift  stream 
beneath. 

Though  not  at  all  indifferent,  I  could  still  snatch 
a  fearful  joy  from  such  precarious  ambulations, 
and  this  morning — the  next  but  one  after  the  return 
of  Brett  Morgan  to  his  home — Kit  and  I  were  taking 
our  rather  cautious  way  along  the  flume,  as  it 
climbed  through  the  woods  toward  the  summit  of 
the  ridge.  On  the  other  side  of  the  ridge  lay  the 
canon  of  the  Grizzly  River,  deeper,  wilder  and  more 
remote  than  that  of  the  Stony  which  flowed  past 
Bandy's  below  the  mine.  The  six-foot  depth  of 
water  rushing  through  the  flume  came  from  some 
miles  farther  up  the  Grizzly,  where  a  dam  had  been 
thrown  across  the  stream.  The  level  of  this  dam, 
we  had  heard  at  Bandy's  was  being  raised,  and 


34         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

there  was  grumbling  in  the  town  that  the  necessary 
hauling  was  done  by  way  of  Lone  Pine — the  name 
recalled  to  me  suddenly  the  hotel  dining-room  at 
Golconda,  and  blue  eyes  that  had  laughed  at  me 
— though  Bandy's  had  the  advantage  as  regarded 
distance.  The  difficulty  was  that  there  was  only  a 
horse  trail  from  Bandy's  to  the  dam.  Twenty 
years  ago,  though,  there  had  been  talk  of  a  road, 
for  what  purpose  I  forget,  that  would  have  con 
nected  the  two.  The  general  conviction  seemed  to 
be  that  Lone  Pine  had  cast  a  paralyzing  spell  over 
the  faculties  of  the  Flatters  at  that  time,  thereby 
defeating  the  project,  for  the  remote  end  of  monopo 
lizing  the  present  traffic. 

The  flume — we  had  never  followed  it  so  far  be 
fore — presently  crossed  through  a  depression  or 
"saddle"  in  the  ridge  and  swung  over  into  the  canon 
of  the  Grizzly,  connecting  with  another  aqueduct 
which  ran  along  the  north  wall  of  the  gorge.  But 
for  having  to  sustain  the  credit  of  my  sex  before 
the  disciple  of  Asa  Cobb,  I  don't  know  that  even  the 
great  sweep  of  beauty  that  unrolled  before  us  as 
we  emerged  suddenly  from  the  dimness  of  the 
woods  could  have  lured  me  forward.  Though  the 
summit  of  the  talus  slope  was  not  more  than  a  pine- 
tree's  height  below,  the  floor  of  the  canon  lay 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         35 

deeper,  and  the  general  effect  of  our  position  was 
airy  in  the  extreme.  Like  green  plumes  ruffled  by 
the  breeze  the  pine-tops  waved  beside  us,  and  the 
deep  burning  blue  of  the  sky  seemed  very  near. 
Across  the  canon  rose  a  line  of  cliffs,  with  beyond 
a  confusion  of  remoter  summits,  fading  from  dark 
green  to  misty  blue,  and  beyond  these  still,  far, 
lonely,  beautiful,  floating  bubble-like  upon  the  sky, 
a  single  snowy  peak. 

We  had  pursued  our  airy  way  some  distance  and 
I  had  paused  to  wait  for  Kit,  who  was  lingering  in 
the  rear,  riveted  by  the  charms  of  a  coy  though 
flirtatious  squirrel.  A  little  way  ahead  the  flume 
curved  round  a  bold  projection  in  the  mountain's 
front.  As  I  sat  on  a  ledge  which  jutted  from  the 
cliff,  idly  wondering  what  was  beyond,  a  man  came 
round  the  bend. 

Now  this,  being  quite  unlocked  for,  was  startling 
in  itself,  but  still  more  startling  was  the  discovery 
which  came  to  me  with  a  second  glance.  Never 
theless  in  the  space  of  a  quick  breath  I  had  pulled 
myself  together  and  assumed  a  nonchalant  and  easy 
pose  calculated  to  impress  a  passer-by  with  my  com 
plete  abstraction  from  the  outward  scene.  But  I 
was  quite  aware  of  the  surprise  in  the  pedestrian's 
face  as  he  advanced,  and  of  its  deepening  swiftly 


36         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

into  something  much  more  complex  and  more  per 
sonal.  His  pace  even  slackened,  uncertainly,  as 
though  in  the  friendly  mountain  fashion  he  meant 
to  pause  and  speak.  But  I  remained  the  frozen 
embodiment  of  the  convention  which  pronounces 
people  invisible  unless  introduced,  and  the  stranger, 
merely  raising  his  hat,  passed  on,  leaving  me  to  sur 
vey  his  departing  back  with  an  immensely  satisfied 
feeling  of  having  scored.  Perhaps  it  would  occur 
to  him  now,  I  exulted,  that  I  was  not  so  young  as 
my  momentary  lapse  there  in  the  dining-room  at 
Golconda  would  indicate,  not  so  young,  at  any  rate, 
as  to  tolerate  reminders  of  my  youth  from  the 
amused  eyes  of  strangers.  I  only  hoped  he  wasn't 
one  of  those  frightfully  tough  persons  whom  there 
is  no  satisfaction  in  snubbing  because  they  never 
really  mind  it.  I  thought,  somehow,  he  had  minded 
it,  his  back  had  looked  so  very  stiff  and  straight 
as  he  went  on.  And  I  owned,  reluctantly,  that  it 
was  a  very  athletic  back,  and  that  corduroy  and  an 
open-throated  flannel  shirt  could  be  very  becoming 
to  the  wearer  thereof,  when  he  happened  to  be  the 
right  one. 

Absorbed  in  the  squirrel,  Kit  had  remained 
unaware  of  the  newcomer's  approach.  They  were 
almost  abreast  when  he  discovered  it  and  turned 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         37 

round  suddenly,  eyes  and  mouth  wide  open.  As  he 
passed  my  brother  by  the  young  man  turned  his 
head,  flinging  back  some  remark  from  the  distance 
of  a 'yard  or  so.  Kit  gave  an  astonished  whoop  and 
stepped  back — exactly  into  the  space  where,  between 
one  cross-piece  and  the  next,  a  plank  was  missing 
from  the  footway.  He  had  vanished  while  yet  his 
scream  was  shrill  upon  the  air. 

It  happened  with  the  swiftness  of  light  and  the 
ghastly  unreality  of  a  nightmare.  Surely  it  was  in 
a  nightmare  that  I  was  running  and  shrieking  so, 
that  I  was  flying  over  the  rattling,  springing  planks 
crying,  "Save  him,  save  him!"  There  seemed  a 
dreadful  gap  of  ages  between  the  horror  itself  and 
the  leap  of  the  man  for  the  place  where  Kit  had 
disappeared.  When  I  reached  it  he  was  lying 
prone,  clutching  with  a  mighty  strain  of  shoulders 
at  something  below. 

He  lifted  a  flushed  face  to  shout  at  me,  "Keep 
back — you'll  be  in  yourself !  It's  all  right — I've  got 
him.  Lord,  how  the  water  pulls!" 

But  I  had  dropped  to  my  knees  and  was  desper 
ately  tugging  at  what  came  handiest — Kit's  mop  of 
crinkly  auburn  hair. 

"Hold  on,  then,"  panted  the  man,  "hold  on  for  all 


38        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

you're  worth  while  I  shift  my  grip.    All  right — got 
him  by  the  trousers.     Pull,  now,  pull!" 

Painfully,  against  the  terrible  sucking  of  the  swift 
dark  stream,  we  heaved,  till  with  disconcerting  sud 
denness  he  came  floundering  out  and  lay  limp  and 
dripping  on  the  footway.  And  the  first  words  he 
uttered,  in  blessed  proof  that  still  he  lived,  were  a 
feebly  savage,  "Leggo — leggo  my  hair!"  At  which 
I  let  go,  and  sinking  in  a  heap  wept  with  abandon. 

At  last  I  pulled  myself  together  and  sat  up,  dab 
bing  at  my  wet  cheeks.  There  sat  Kit,  dripping, 
and  greenish-white  beneath  his  freckles,  but  indis 
putably  alive.  And  the  blue  eyes  that  had  laughed 
at  me  were  very  sober  now  and  a  little  scared,  as  if 
a  girl  on  a  flume  who  couldn't  stop  crying  presented 
a  perplexing  problem. 

I  achieved  a  reassuring  if  watery  smile,  lifting  my 
face  to  Kit's  rescuer  without  the  least  attempt  to 
disguise  existing  facts,  however  pink  and  swollen. 

"How  can  I  thank  you?"  I  choked.  "I  have  no 
words — "  Here  I  had  to  stop  and  swallow  hard. 

"Please  don't!"  he  begged  uncomfortably. 
"There  was  nothing  to  it,  nothing  at  all,  really. 
Are  you  all  right  now?  It  must  have  been  rather 
a  bad  minute  or  two  for  you,  of  course." 

"Minute  or  two?    Why,  it  went  on  for  ages, 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         39 

didn't  it?"  The  smile  this  time  was  less  moist,  and 
the  stranger  looked  encouraged.  "Kit,  darling, 
aren't  you  going  to  say  a  single  word  of  thanks?" 

"I  guess  I  don't  mind  saying  thanks,"  he  replied 
weakly  but  aggrievedly.  "But  all  the  same  it  would 
have  been  pretty  mean  not  to  pull  me  out  when  he 
made  me  fall  in!" 

"Kit!" 

"Yes,  he  did — by  hollering  back  at  me,  Tried  out 
that  stunt  on  any  bandits  yet?'  And  then  of  course 
I  knew  right  off  he  must  be  that  fellow." 

"Ktif* 

"Never  mind,"  interposed  the  rescuer,  "I'm 
afraid  he  owes  me  his  ducking  right  enough.  All 
the  same,  old  man,  now  the  little  interruption's 
over,  I'd  like  first-rate  to  know  if  you  have  tried  it 
out  ?"  He  grinned  good-naturedly  at  Kit,  who  with 
a  glare  expressive  of  the  scorn  with  which  he  at  all 
times  regards  an  essay  at  the  humorous,  particularly 
at  his  own  expense,  turned  his  back  and  began  to 
unlace  his  boots. 

"He  isn't  behaving  very  nicely,"  I  apologized. 

"Please  forgive  him,  Mr.  "  Here  I  was 

brought  up  short  by  the  realization  that  I  didn't 
know  his  name. 

"My  name  is  Joseph  Lambert." 


40         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"Mine  is  Sally  Armsby.  I  am  sure  Kit  really 
feels  as  he  ought,  Mr.  Lambert,  only  being  a  boy — " 

"Of  course.  I've  been  one  myself,  you  know. 
And  besides  it  all  amounts  to  nothing — I  didn't  save 
him — couldn't.  He'd  have  been  under  the  planks 
and  yards  down  the  flume  before  I  could  have 
stirred.  What  did  the  trick  was  a  nail  in  the  cross- 
piece  here — caught  his  blouse  and  held  him  just  the 
necessary  ten  seconds.  And  you  helped  a  lot  your 
self  in  pulling  him  out,  Miss  Armsby,  though  I 
dare  say  you've  loosened  up  his  hair  some  about  the 
roots." 

"You  bet!"  Kit  confirmed. 

"I  decline  to  transfer  my  gratitude  to  nails,  or 
credit  myself  with  pulling  out  anything  but  his 
hair,"  I  declared,  shaking  my  head.  "You'll  just 
have  to  let  me  go  on  being  grateful  to  you,  Mr. 
Lambert." 

"All  right,"  he  cheerfully  agreed,  his  blue  eyes 
smiling — I  saw  on  reconsidering  it  that  I  had  done 
quite  right  to  provide  the  Ideal  with  blue  ones — "I 
don't  really  mind,  you  know.  But  the  important 
thing  just  now,  it  seems  to  me,  is  to  get  the  young 
ster  dry.  Let's  see,  that  rock  where  you  were 
sitting" —  I  blushed  unhappily — "part  of  it  is  in  the 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         41 

sun,  I  think.  Suppose  we  take  him  there?  He'll 
be  steaming  like  a  teakettle  in  no  time." 

On  the  way  Kit  turned  out  so  wabbly  that  he 
meekly  let  Mr.  Lambert  sustain  him  with  a  strong 
brown  hand.  Once  spread  out  in  the  hot  sunshine 
he  dropped  promptly  off  to  sleep,  while  we  sat  in 
the  shade  beside  him  talking  in  low  tones. 

He :  "Of  course  it  was  the  most  immense  surprise 
to  find  you  sitting  here  beside  the  flume — for  all 
the  world  like  a  water-nymph  or  some  such  aqueous 
party." 

I :  "And  of  course  it  confirmed  your  belief  that  I 
was  an  aqueous  party  when  I  began  to  weep  so." 

He:  "But  how  did  you  happen  to  be  here?  Do 
you  mind  explaining?  Because,  of  course,  when  I 
saw  you  at  Golconda  I  had  no  idea  that  I — that  you 
would  be  turning  up  again  anywhere  around  this 
remote  region." 

I :  "We  are  staying  at  Bandy's  Flat.  It's  the  most 
delicious  old  place.  Do  you  know  it?" 

"I  ought  to,"  he  said  laughing,  "seeing  it  was 
named  for  my  great-uncle's  legs." 

"For  your  great-uncle's  legs !"  I  echoed. 

He  nodded.  "My  father  was  his  sister's  son. 
There  were  just  the  two  of  them,  my  grandmother 
and  her  brother  Heber.  He  got  turned  down  by  a 


42         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

girl,  on  account  of  his  bandiness,  I  believe,  and 
went  off  to  California,  where  he  struck  it  rich,  and 
settled,  and  later  on  married — tastes  in  legs  differ, 
of  course." 

"Why,  it  must  give  you  quite  a  lord  of  the  manor 
feeling!"  I  said,  greatly  impressed. 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it  in  precisely  that  light," 
he  admitted.  "It's  an  odd  thing,  though,  that  I  am 
out  in  this  part  of  the  world  mainly  on  account  of 
old  Uncle  Bates  having  preceded  me  here.  I  had 
known  next  to  nothing  about  him — he  had  gone  to 
California  long  before  even  my  father  was  born. 
It  was  not  till  after  my  father's  death,  and  my  own 
return  from  France,  that  a  queer  thing  happened." 

He  paused,  looking  at  me  doubtingly.  "Per 
haps  I'm  boring  you  awfully — please  tell  me  if 
I  am." 

"Boring  me — of  course  not.  Please  go  on — what 
was  the  queer  thing?" 

"Well,  the  settling  up  of  a  little  business — the 
sale  of  the  old  family  home,  where  we  used  to  go 
summers  when  I  was  a  child — took  me  back  to  the 
little  town  in  the  Genesee  Valley  where  my  fore 
bears  on  the  Bates  and  Lambert  side  had  lived  a 
very  long  while.  They  were  tearing  down  the  old 
post-office,  and  a  letter  was  found  which  had  slipped 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         43 

behind  a  shelf  and  been  forgotten.  Being  addressed 
to  Joseph  Lambert,  it  was  delivered  to  me.  But  it 
was  not  written  to  me — it  was  written  to  my  father, 
and  dated  two  years  before  my  birth — the  same 
year  he  had  left  the  old  place  to  settle  in  the  city. 
It  was  from  his  uncle,  Heber  Bates." 

"Oh,  please  go  on!"  I  urged  breathlessly,  as  once 
more  he  paused. 

"Well,  Uncle  Bates  wrote— from  Bandy's  Flat, 
of  course — suggesting  that  his  nephew  should  come 
out  to  California.  The  letter  seemed  to  be  in  reply 
to  one  from  my  father  telling  of  his  mother's  death 
— she  was  Heber  Bates's  sister,  you  recollect.  So 
Uncle  Bates  wrote  that  as  he  himself  was  childless, 
and  his  nephew  his  only  near  relative,  he  wanted 
him  to  come  out  and  take  the  place  of  a  son.  There 
was  a  good  deal  in  detail  about  his  affairs — Uncle 
Heber  seems  to  have  been  a  pretty  shrewd  old 
party." 

"But  after  all  he  didn't  leave  such  a  frightful  lot 
of  money,  and  most  of  what  he  did  leave  was  in 
mining-stock  which  has  since  become  worthless,"  I 
reminded  Mr.  Bates's  grand-nephew,  though  reluct 
ant  to  dim  even  in  this  slight  degree  the  romance 
of  this  surprising  story. 

"So  I  understand."      Mr.    Lambert   left   off   to 


44         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

grind  an  acorn  very  fine  with  his  boot-heel.  "Well, 
anyway,  I  felt  a  certain  interest  in  the  place  that 
might  have  been  my  father's  home,  in  case  he  had 
received  that  letter,  and  as  soon  as  I  got  things 
wound  up — both  my  parents  were  gone  and  there 
was  nothing  to  hold  me — I  came  out  to  San  Fran 
cisco.  There  first  thing  I  stumbled  on  the  job  that 
brought  me  up  here — raising  the  level  of  the 
Grizzly  dam.  The  work  kept  me  hustling  at  first, 
so  that  though  I  managed  to  drop  in  a  couple  of 
times  at  Bandy's  it  was  never  with  any  time  to 
spare.  Then  something  happened — and  the  link 
between  me  and  Bandy's  seemed  pretty  definitely 
snapped." 

"Something  happened  ?" 

"When  I  was  in  that  hold-up  ten  days  ago  the 
fellows  took  the  wallet  that  had  Uncle  Bates's  let 
ter  in  it.  That  letter  was  the  only  thing  I  had  in  the 
way  of  credentials." 

"In  the  way  of  credentials — I  don't  quite  under 
stand." 

"I  mean  as  an  introduction  to  the  present  owner 
of  the  Bates  property,  a  Miss  Luppy,  I  believe." 

"Yes,  Miss  Luppy.  Kit  and  I  are  staying  with 
her — how  odd,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it — in 
your  great-uncle's  house." 

"Very  odd.     I  suppose  I  ought  to  remark,  with 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         45 

startling  originality,  that  this  is  a  small  world.  Of 
course" — he  hesitated — "of  course  I  had  still  a 
lingering  idea  of  calling  on  Miss  Luppy  some 
time — "  His  pause  was  suggestive. 

"Perhaps  you  may  happen  to  while  we  are  there." 
This  much  was  due,  surely,  to  the  man  who  had 
just  saved  one's  brother's  life. 

"Happen  to?  Naturally  I'd  make  a  point  of  it  if 
I  thought — " 

I,  sedately :  "Kit  and  I  would  be  very  glad  to  see 
you." 

He:  "Oh— Kit!    But  may  I,  really?" 

I,  feeling  it  unnecessary  to  be  sedate  twice  in  suc 
cession,  and  smiling  up  into  his  questioning  eyes: 
"Of  course!" 

Kit  having  awakened  sufficiently  restored,  we 
went  back  together  along  the  flume.  Mr.  Lam 
bert's  replies,  given  with  cheerful  candor,  to  Kit's 
brazen  catechizing  soon  made  one  fact  evident  be 
yond  dispute — that  he  was  not  an  acquaintance  of 
whom  Arabella  would  have  approved.  He  had 
worked  his  way  through  college,  at  least  the  last 
two  years,  he  hadn't  a  single  influential  relation, 
he  had  neglected  the  social  opportunities  the  friend 
ship  of  his  chief  might  have  given  him  in  town,  and 
expected  to  rise  in  his  profession  only  by  his  own 
hard  work.  How  different  from  Jimmie  Halliday, 


46         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

for  instance,  of  whom  Arabella  so  emphatically 
approved,  and  who  was  coming  in  for  all  his  uncle's 
money,  and  who  flunked  out  of  college  in  his  fresh 
man  year  and  had  since  been  too  delicate,  in  his 
mother's  opinion,  to  go  back!  There  had  been  a 
time  when  I  too  had  approved  of  Jimmie,  but  how 
long  ago  it  seemed!  And  I  tried  unavailingly  to 
imagine  Jimmie  with  the  background  of  Bandy's 
Flat.  But  he  seemed  to  get  very  thin,  somehow, 
and  melt  completely  from  my  mental  grasp.  The 
Flat  did  not  make  an  impressive  background,  but 
as  a  test  of  reality  it  was  remarkably  effective. 

At  the  fork  in  the  flume,  where  one  arm  of  it 
crossed  through  the  saddle  to  our  side  of  the  ridge, 
we  parted,  Mr.  Lambert  to  go  farther  along  the 
canon  of  the  Grizzly,  to  where  men  from  the  dam 
were  repairing  a  break  in  the  flume.  I  gave  him 
my  hand,  and  he  mentioned,  with  an  air  rather 
elaborately  casual,  that  he  might  perhaps  ride  over 
to  the  Flat  on  Sunday  if  I  didn't  mind.  I  said  I 
didn't,  and  that  Miss  Luppy  would  be  immensely 
pleased  to  see  him,  which  unauthorized  statement 
made  Kit  stare.  And  if  he  did  hold  my  hand  a  lit 
tle  lingeringly,  one  could  overlook  more  than  that, 
couldn't  one,  in  the  man  who  had  saved  one's 
brother's  life?  Even  Arbella  must  have  admitted  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SUNDAY  at  Bandy's  Flat  was  distinguished  from 
other  days  mainly  by  the  prevalence  among  the 
masculine  population  of  clean  shirts  and  a  scrubbed 
look  about  the  ears.  No  sweet  melody  of  church 
bells  echoed  among  the  lanes,  for  the  reason,  first, 
that  this  was  not  one  of  the  semi-occasional  Sun 
days  when  a  minister  from  the  outer  world  came 
to  officiate  in  the  little  church;  second,  that  said 
little  church  possessed  no  bell.  I  was  in  my  room 
doing  my  hair  for  the  third  time  when  Kit  burst  in 
on  the  heels  of  a  tremendous  knock. 

"Say,  Sally,  he's  down-stairs," 

Coldly  interrogated  as  to  the  significance  of  the 
pronoun,  he  explained  it  as  referring  to  the  fellow 
who  had  ducked  him  in  the  flume,  this  being  Kit's 
version  of  the  episode.  When  asked  still  more 
coldly  if  he  was  speaking  of  Mr.  Lambert  he  replied, 
"Yep,  I  guess  that's  his  label,"  and  pelted  down 
stairs  to  have  his  innings  before  I  arrived  to  diminish 
his  importance. 

47 


48         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

The  parlor  at  Miss  Luppy's  was  seldom  used  and 
of  a  gloomy  grandeur,  being  kept  sunless  and  air 
less  and  speckless  in  accordance  with  the  best  Down 
East  tradition — Miss  Luppy  came  from  Maine.  It 
had  shiny  horsehair  furniture,  stuffed  birds  and  wax 
flowers  under  glass  on  the  mantel,  and  portraits  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Heber  Bates  looking  down  solemnly 
from  the  wall.  Mr.  Lambert  was  seated  on  the 
slippery  sofa,  expounding  the  mysteries  of  dam- 
building  to  Kit.  I  saw  that  in  Kit's  eyes  my  en 
trance  was  ill-timed,  and  that  I  would  have  done 
better  to  stay  away  and  let  the  conversation  retain 
its  masculine  solidity.  And  that  the  guest  seemed 
otherwise  minded  was  due,  of  course,  merely  to  that 
belief  in  the  necessity  of  truckling  to  females  so 
unintelligible  to  Kit  in  the  maturer  members  of  his 
sex. .  .Mr.  Lambert  was  much  interested,  naturally, 
in  the  portraits  of  the  Bateses,  of  which  Bandy's 
showed  a  rather  handsome  old  man — the  legs  were 
not  in  evidence — and  his  wife  Eliza's  a  very  plain 
elderly  woman.  I  had  already  inferred  that  Mrs. 
Bandy's  origin  was  decidedly  more  plebeian  than 
her  husband's,  whose  father  had  been  a  minister, 
far  as  the  son  seemed,  in  some  features  of  his 
career,  to  have  fallen  from  the  paternal  standard. 

The    squeak    of   substantial    shoes   heralded    the 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         49 

entrance  of  Miss  Luppy,  in  her  best  alpaca  gown. 
She  had  declined  to  accept  Mr.  Lambert  into  favor 
beforehand,  on  the  strength  either  of  the  relation 
ship  or  the  rescue  of  Kit,  declaring  that  she  would 
look  him  over  for  herself.  And  look  him  over  she 
did,  deliberately.  If  he  didn't  feel  her  eye  boring 
into  his  very  marrow  he  must  have  worn  the  armor 
of  a  good  conscience,  or  a  very  hardened  one.  But 
he  remained  calm,  and  even  put  out  an  apparently 
fearless  hand. 

"Well !"  said  Miss  Luppy.  "So  you're  the  young 
man  Sally's  been  tellin'  of,  who  kep'  the  Boy  here 
from  shootin'  down  the  flume  to  the  county-seat. 
It's  a  mercy  you  did,  for  they  say  if  anything  gits 
into  the  machinery  down  there  to  the  power-house 
it  throws  the  lights  off  in  seven  towns.  I'm  thank 
ful  to  say  we've  stuck  to  kerosene,  here  to  the  Flat. 
And  so  Sally  tells  me  you  claim  to  be  kin  to  Heber 
Bates,  my  cousin  Eliza's  husband.  Not  that  I  ever 
knew  him,  for  I  didn't  come  out  to  look  after 
Cousin  Eliza  till  he  died.  She  was  a  good  deal 
shook  up  by  his  passin'  out  so  sudden —  Jest  where 
was  you  raised,  did  you  say?" 

Mr.  Lambert  told  her. 

"Yes,  I've  heard  tell  he  had  some  kin  back  in 
York  State,"  she  said  musingly.  "Warn't  there 


50         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

some  kind  of  tale  you  told  Sally  about  a  letter?" 
She  put  this  question  suddenly  and  challengingly. 

"I  explained  to  you  all  about  it,  Miss  Luppy,"  I 
interrupted,  but  Miss  Luppy  was  not  to  be  diverted. 

"I  ast  him,"  she  said  firmly,  and  Mr.  Lambert 
gave  in  sketchy  outline  the  story  I  had  already 
heard,  while  the  attentive  eye  of  Miss  Luppy 
searched  his  countenance  for  signs  of  confusion  and 
guilt.  But  he  came  through  the  ordeal  triumphantly. 

"Umph!"  said  Miss  Luppy,  conveying  the  im 
pression  that  she  granted  him,  if  an  impostor,  at 
least  the  credit  of  being  a  thoroughgoing  one.  For 
a  minute  or  two  she  sat  rubbing  her  nose  in  silence. 
Then,  "Jest  what  might  the  letter  have  said?"  she 
abruptly  demanded. 

"It  was  a  very  friendly  letter,  urging  my  father 
to  visit  him  in  California,"  said  Mr.  Lambert,  look 
ing  straight  at  Lavinia,  his  expression  calm  but 
unrevealing. 

"And  you  say  you  lost  it  when  the  Overland  was 
robbed  a  couple  o'  weeks  back?" 

"It  was  in  the  wallet  that  the  hold-up  men  took." 

"And  you  ain't  got  no  other  proof  of  who  you 
are?" 

I  felt  the  blood  tingle  in  my;  cheeks,  but  Mr. 
Lambert  smiled. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         51 

"None  in  the  world,  Miss  Luppy,  though  I  sup 
pose  my  army  discharge  papers  would  show  that  I 
really  am  named  Joseph  Lambert.  But  then,  of 
course,  I  have  no  particular  reason  for  proving  any 
thing.  I  am  interested,  naturally,  to  see  the  house 
where  my  great-uncle  lived — we  are  a  nearly 
extinct  family,  so  that  even  a  deceased  great-uncle 
whom  I  never  saw  counts  for  something.  And  I 
am  very  glad  indeed  to  find  the  place  in  such  good 
hands  as  yours.  You  won't  grudge  me  this,  will 
you,  even  if  I  have  lost  the  letter  that  should  have 
been  my  introduction?" 

"Mr.  Lambert  has  a  better  introduction,  I  should 
think,  than  a  million  letters,  in  having  saved  Kit's 
life !"  I  exploded,  conscious  of  an  alarmingly  strong 
impulse  to  assault  the  inquisitorial  Miss  Luppy. 
Why  did  she  harp  so  ridiculously  on  that  lost  let 
ter  of  old,  long-dead  Bandy  Bates?  Did  she  sup 
pose  Mr.  Lambert  had  come  to  throw  himself  on 
her  hands  as  a  needy  orphan? 

"There,  don't  you  git  het  up,  Sally,"  advised 
Miss  Luppy  with  unexpected  mildness.  "It  ain't  but 
common  sense,  and  Joe  Lambert  here  will  tell  you 
the  same,  for  me  to  kind  of  look  into  things  a  little 
when  a  stranger  walks  in  claimin'  to  be  kin.  And 
besides  it  might  'a'  been  worth  my  while  to  know 


52         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

more  in  particular  jest  what  that  letter  said —  Well, 
Joe  Lambert,  I  make  you  welcome,  not  jest  because 
you're  Bates's  kin  but  because  I  expect  you're  a  real 
decent  young  man  myself.  It  ain't  often  I'm  fooled, 
once  I  look  a  party  in  the  eye  like  I  have  you." 

Miss  Luppy  thereupon  rose  and  shook  hands  with 
Joe  Lambert,  with  an  air  which  imparted  to  the 
action  the  solemnity  of  a  rite.  This  accomplished 
she  withdrew,  remarking  that  she  must  see  to  din 
ner,  to  which  the  guest  was  duly  bidden.  Left  to 
ourselves  we  looked  at  each  other,  and  Mr.  Lambert 
gave  an  appreciative  grin. 

"Taken  all  by  herself,  she'd  have  been  worth  the 
ride  from  the  dam,"  he  remarked. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  be  furious !" 

"Not  at  all.  As  she  said,  it  was  right  for  her 
to  look  into  things  a  little.  After  all,  though,  she 
seems  to  have  accepted  me  merely  on  face  value." 

"If  only  you  hadn't  lost  the  letter.  How  I  would 
have  loved  to  see  it,  even  the  outside  of  it,  with  such 
a  history!" 

"Ah,  if  I  hadn't!  Never  mind,  there  are  plenty 
of  other  souvenirs  of  Bandy  Bates  around.  I  ex 
pect  the  hold-up  men  felt  sold  when  they  opened 
that  wallet,  all  right." 

Kit  broke  in  to  demand  details  of  the  robbery,  of 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         53 

which  a  fuller  account  than  we  had  heard  at  Gol- 
conda  had  appeared  in  the  papers  brought  by  the 
tri-weekly  stage  to  Bandy's.  It  had  been  a  bold  and 
skilful  one,  and  bade  fair  to  be  successful  until  the 
brakeman  had  achieved  his  unexpected  coup.  All 
three  bandits,  including  the  wounded  man,  had 
made  their  escape,  and  as  far  as  was  known  no  trace 
of  them  had  been  discovered.  Mr.  Lambert  had 
little  to  add  to  this  outline,  except,  for  the  benefit 
of  Kit,  a  highly  imaginative  sketch  of  his  sensations 
when  the  bandits  entered  the  car. 

"S'pose  they'll  be  caught?"  asked  Kit,  drinking 
in  this  recital  with  avidity. 

"I  wouldn't  bank  on  it.  The  chaparral  down 
there  in  the  foot-hill  country  is  a  pretty  good  place 
to  hide." 

"So  you  will  probably  never  see  the  letter  again!" 
I  mourned,  my  mind  still  running  on  that  interest 
ing  topic. 

"Probably  never,"  he  agreed,  and  was  silent, 
staring  abstractedly  at  the  portrait  of  his  great- 
uncle  on  the  wall. 

As  we  strolled  about  the  garden  or  the  village 
that  morning,  I  made  surprising  discovery  of  the 
multitude  of  things  there  are  to  talk  about,  if  only 
the  right  person  is  there  to  listen.  Oddly  enough, 


54         FpRTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

this  all  but  perfect  stranger  had  turned  out  to  be 
the  right  person,  exactly  and  precisely  the  right 
person,  to  understand  the  things  I  had  thought 
most  often,  but  had  almost  never  found  it  possible 
to  talk  about  before.  For  instance,  he  understood 
at  once  just  what  it  was  like  to  have  nobody  at  all 
but  Kit,  and  how  Arabella  was  very  nice  but  didn't 
really  count,  and  how  you  resented  boarding-school 
when  you  went  there  with  a  bundled  out-of-the-way 
feeling,  and  how  absurdly  young  and  unimportant 
a  boy  like  Jimmie  Halliday  would  seem  when  you 
were  a  year  older  and  had  never  really  cared  about 
him  anyhow.  He  did  appear  to  be  a  little  dense 
about  Jimmie  Halliday  at  first  and  to  take  him  for 
a  grown-up  person  whom  one  might  have  consid 
ered  seriously.  But  in  the  end  I  made  him  see  it  all 
quite  clearly — at  least  he  said  so  then.  And  there 
was  a  lot  to  tell  about  his  dad,  and  what  pals  they 
had  been — his  mother,  like  ours,  had  died  when  he 
was  small.  It  seemed  that  at  the  time  when  Heber 
Bates  had  written  his  strangely-fated  letter,  his 
nephew,  just  out  of  college,  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  leave  his  native  village  for  wider  fields.  If  the 
letter  had  reached  its  destination,  instead  of  slipping 
down  behind  the  shelf  to  lie  forgotten  all  these 
years,  Joseph  Lambert  Senior  would  unquestion- 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         55 

ably  have  accepted  his  uncle's  invitation  to  come 
out  to  California.  As  it  was  he  went  to  Buffalo, 
where,  he  met  and  precipitately  married  Joseph 
Junior's  mother,  and  practised  law  and  did  well, 
and  then  lost  everything  in  an  unlucky  venture 
when  his  son  was  in  his  sophomore  year  in  college. 
Then  he  died,  and  Joe  was  left  alone. 

"So  I  suppose  I  owe  my  existence  to  the  letter 
having  been  lost  that  first  time,"  he  concluded. 

"Isn't  it  queer  that  it  should  have  brought  a 
Joseph  Lambert  to  California  after  all?"  I  mused. 

"Isn't  it  queerer  that  after  bringing  me  here  it 
should  have  played  me  that  low  trick  and  got  lost 
again?"  he  returned  with  a  certain  bitterness. 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  it  thought  it  had  done  its 
work!"  I  said  lightly. 

His  lips  opened  as  if  on  a  reply,  then  closed  again 
rather  suddenly,  and  we  strolled  on  in  silence.  We 
had  made  a  roundabout  progress  to  the  end  of  the 
village,  and  were  now  returning  up  the  shady  street, 
where  the  low  strong  buildings  of  dark  old  brick 
with  their  iron  outer  doors  and  shutters  bore  wit 
ness  that  to  make  your  premises  bullet-proof  had 
once  been  simplest  prudence  here  at  Bandy's. 
On  either  side  of  the  street  was  a  roofed-over 
wooden  sidewalk,  the  lounging-place  of  village 


56         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

ancients  whose  chairs  blocked  the  way,  while  they 
sat  with  rheumy  eyes  gazing  into  the  distance,  and 
lips  mumbling  soundlessly  in  converse  with  invisible 
companions.  Cottonwoods  and  locusts  and  pop 
lars  grew  along  the  street,  filling  it  with  cool  fluc 
tuating  shadow.  It  was  all  curiously  still  and 
peaceful,  with  the  peace  of  arrested  life,  of  deep  but 
dreamful  slumber.  Our  own  youth  seemed 
strangely,  almost  jarringly  incongruous  in  this  place 
from  which  all  that  was  young  and  vigorous  and 
hopeful  had  departed  long  ago. 

We  passed  the  grassy  stretch  which  separated  it 
from  the  other  buildings  and  paused  before  the  old 
saloon. 

"Here  is  the  place  where  Mr.  Bates  was  found 
dying,"  I  told  him.  We  stood  gazing  at  the  dingy 
walls,  the  uncompromising  iron  defenses  of  door 
and  windows.  Other  buildings  on  the  street  were 
likewise  tenantless  and  disused,  but  on  this  there 
rested,  in  my  eyes  at  least,  the  shadow  of  its 
history. 

"Do  you  care  to  go  in?"  I  asked.  "After  the 
barkeeper  was  murdered  and  the  saloon  given  up 
your  great-uncle  spent  most  of  his  time  here,  tinker 
ing  about,  as  Mr.  Cobb  says.  I  have  always  meant 
to  ask  Miss  Luppy  to  let  me  go  in  some  day.  I'm 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         57 

sure  she  won't  mind.  The  key  hangs  on  a  nail  by 
the  kitchen  window — I  know  because  she  men 
tioned  what  it  was  when  Kit  had  the  nose-bleed  and 
she  put  it  down  his  neck." 

He  paused  a  moment  before  replying,  his  eyes 
meditatively  on  the  front  of  the  old  building. 

"Yes,  let's,"  he  said  finally. 

Miss  Luppy  made  no  difficulty  about  giving  us 
the  key,  and  we  returned  with  it  to  the  grim  iron 
door.  The  lock  yielded  stiffly,  and  the  twin  leaves 
swung  back  heavily  on  their  rusty  hinges.  The 
inner  doors  were  not  locked,  and  we  opened  them 
and  went  in.  It  was  a  dusky,  gloomy  place,  lighted 
now  only  from  the  open  doorway  and  a  small 
unshuttered  window  high  in  the  side  wall,  put  there, 
I  suppose,  for  ventilation.  In  one  corner  a  number 
of  little  round  tables  and  chairs  were  piled  together. 
At  the  upper  end  a  massive  mahogany  bar  ran 
across  the  room,  with  a  little  gate  at  one  side  admit 
ting  to  the  space  behind  it.  Against  the  rear  wall 
rose  an  elaborate  construction  of  shelves  and  mir 
rors,  where  an  accumulation  of  dusty  decanters  and 
drinking-glasses  stacked  one  inside  another  spoke 
eloquently  of  past  festivity. 

These  items  exhausted,  there  remained  apparently 
nothing  more  to  see.  The  air  was  close  and  musty, 


58         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

cool  even  on  that  day  of  ardent  heat.  Big  dusty  cob 
webs  hung  from  the  ceiling  and  the  shelves  of  the 
buffet,  though  what  the  spiders  lived  on,  unless  one 
another,  I  am  sure  I  can't  imagine.  I  had  a  sense  of 
a  pervading  gloom  and  depression  about  the  place, 
for  which  of  course  its  darkness,  its  mustiness,  and 
my  own  imagination  would  account.  Mr.  Lambert 
was  rather  silent,  and  wandered  about  with  an  air 
of  being  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  emerging 
from  them  with  a  start  when  I  wanted  to  know 
where,  in  his  opinion,  the  murdered  Brett  Morgan 
had  probably  fallen  in  his  blood.  He  professed  him 
self  unable  to  decide  this  point,  and  we  turned  back 
to  the  entrance.  Directly  before  the  door  was  a  closed 
trap  in  the  floor,  which  on  being  lifted  disclosed  a 
runway  into  a  dark  cellar.  It  was  a  low-ceiled, 
dank,  uninviting  place,  containing  only  three  or  four 
large  hogsheads  and  a  litter  of  rubbish,  mostly 
empty  bottles.  After  a  cursory  inspection  we 
closed  the  trap  and  went  out. 

When  we  were  again  on  the  sidewalk  and  the 
door  of  the  saloon  had  swung  to  with  a  sullen  jar, 
I  drew  a  long  breath  which  had  in  it  an  element  of 
relief.  How  good  it  was  to  be  out  in  the  warm 
fragrant  air,  with  the  fluttering  lazy  shadow  of  the 
poplar  playing  over  us,  the  sunshine  pouring  its 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         59 

mellow  flood  upon  the  earth !  There  had  been,  yes, 
certainly  there  had  been,  an  oppressiveness  about 
that  deserted  building,  like  a  queer  haunting  echo  of 
its  old  sordid  revelry,  which  death  had  so  abruptly 
ended.  Absorbed  in  these  thoughts  I  stood  watch 
ing  my  companion  struggle  with  the  lock,  in  which 
the  key  had  somehow  jammed.  At  last  we  turned 
away  together — and  turning,  came  face  to  face  with 
some  one  who  had  approached  unnoticed,  and  who, 
it  didn't  need  a  second  glance  to  tell  me,  was  Brett 
Morgan.  It  wasn't  the  first  time,  of  course,  that 
I  had  seen  him  since  our  meeting  a  few  days  ago 
in  his  mother's  kitchen.  It  had  seemed  to  me,  in 
deed,  that  I  was  perpetually  getting  glimpses  of  him, 
that  whichever  way  I  looked  Brett  Morgan,  with 
his  hat  drawn  low  over  his  dark  brows  and  the 
inevitable  cigarette  between  his  lips,  closed  the  vista. 
Although  uncomfortably  aware  that  these  encounters 
were  not  accidental,  I  had  managed  so  far  to  keep 
them  at  long  range.  Brett  Morgan  had  had  oppor 
tunity  for  no  more  than  an  occasional  bow — always 
with  that  cavalier-like  grace — to  which  I  replied  as 
sedately  as  my  somewhat  quickened  breath  would 
let  me.  Even  the  passing  glimpse  of  him  evoked 
again  that  disconcertingly  mixed  sensation  of  fear 
and  unwilling  recognition  of  a  certain  dark  charm 


60         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

he  had,  which  at  our  first  meeting  had  so  perturbed 
me. 

Now  we  were  face  to  face.  I  had  time  for  a  swift 
uprush  of  thankfulness  that  I  was  not  alone  before 
I  realized  that,*  surprisingly,  the  eyes  of  Brett  Mor 
gan  were  fixed,  not  on  me,  but  on  Joseph  Lambert. 

Intently,  concentratedly,  Brett  Morgan  was  tak 
ing  Joe  Lambert  in.  His  lips,  with  their  subtle  sug 
gestion  of  cruelty,  were  set,  and  his  black  brows 
frowning.  For  a  long  moment  of  silence  he  stared 
somberly  at  the  other  man,  in  whose  face  dawned  a 
half-humorous  astonishment  as  he  met  this  intently 
observant  as  well  as  blackly  hostile  look.  We  had 
both,  of  necessity,  stood  still,  for  on  the  narrow 
sidewalk  there  was  not  room  to  pass  unless  the  man 
before  us  should  make  way.  He  did  not,  but  delib 
erately  blocked  it. 

My  companion  had  opened  his  lips  to  speak, 
rather  peremptorily,  I  imagine,  when  Brett  Morgan 
turned  suddenly  from  him  to  me  and  took  off  his 
hat  with  his  air  of  the  cavalier.  His  lips  smiled,  but 
his  eyes  were  like  hot  embers. 

"Good  mornin',  Miss  Armsby.  I've  been  thmkin' 
you'd  mebbe  be  in  to  see  my  mother  again — it'd  sure 
be  a  pleasure  to  her." 

"Oh,  would  it?    I  hope  she's  well — I'll  come  in 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         61 

some  day,"  I  stammered.  Then,  obedient  perhaps 
to  the  purpose  I  saw  in  his  face,  I  added,  "Mr.  Lam 
bert,  this  is  Mr.  Morgan,"  and  had  instantly  the 
uncomfortable  realization  that  in  thus  recognizing 
Brett  Morgan's  social  existence  I  had  made  him  just 
so  much  the  more  difficult  to  ignore. 

The  two  men  shook  hands  without  cordiality. 

"You  round  this  part  o'  the  country  to  stay?" 
inquired  Morgan,  civilly  enough,  but  with  an  under- 
note  of  defiance  in  his  voice. 

"I'm  in  charge  at  present  of  the  work  on  the 
Grizzly  dam,"  replied  Mr.  Lambert  stiffly. 

"Huh — expect  to  be  ridin'  over  often  to  the 
Flat?"  There  was  no  mistaking  the  significance 
of  Morgan's  manner.  It  made  of  the  question  a 
challenge,  almost  a  threat.  He  stared  gloomily  at 
Joe  Lambert. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder."  The  cool  brevity  of  this 
was  matched  by  the  frigidity  of  Mr.  Lambert's  air. 
His  blue  eyes,  usually  so  amused  and  frank,  could 
be  very  hard.  He  nodded  to  Morgan  curtly. 

"Shall  we  go  on,  Miss  Armsby  ?"  The  determina 
tion  of  his  advance  amounted  almost  to  putting 
Morgan  to  one  side.  Morgan  gave  way,  but  as  we 
passed  him  he  turned  on  the  other  man  a  dark  look 
of  hate.  Joe  Lambert  didn't  see  it;  he  was  gazing 


62         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

straight  ahead,  as  having  dismissed  Brett  Morgan 
from  his  consciousness  completely.  I  did,  and  I 
murmured  a  good-by  that  was  almost  propitiating, 
there  was  something  so  formidable  in  that  powerful 
figure,  in  that  implacable,  handsome  face.  He 
caught  my  upturned  glance  and  his  eyes  lighted  as 
when  a  flame  springs  suddenly  from  a  bed  of  sullen 
coals.  A  hot  devouring  eagerness  came  into  them — 
and  involuntarily  I  shrank  closer  to  Joe  Lambert 
and  went  on  quickly. 

"That  fellow  live  around  here  ?"  asked  Mr.  Lam 
bert  as  soon  as  we  were  out  of  ear-shot. 

"His  mother  lives  here.  He  has  come  home  to 
see  her,  I  suppose.  He  is  the  son  of  the  man  whom 
Mr.  Bates  hired  to  run  the  saloon,  and  who  was 
shot  down  at  the  bar  in  some  sort  of  quarrel." 

"Don't  think  I  exactly  fancy  the  cut  of  his  jib 
—eh?" 

"He  doesn't  strike  one  as  very  lamb-like,"  I  ad 
mitted.  "Miss  Luppy  rather  hinted  that  he  wouldn't 
be  an  altogether  desirable  acquaintance." 

"Right-o,  Miss  Luppy!"  Then,  with  a  sudden 
keen  look  at  me:  "Has  he  been  bothering  you  at 
all?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all !"  I  said  hastily,  and,  so  far  as 
literal  fact  went,  truthfully.  Not  on  my  account 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         63 

should  Joe  Lambert  do  or  say  what  would  make 
Brett  Morgan  any  more  his  enemy. 

At  the  garden  gate  we  both,  as  by  a  single  im 
pulse,  looked  back.  Brett  Morgan  stood  where  we 
had  left  him,  staring  after  us,  but  now  he  turned  on 
his  heel  abruptly  and  went  on  down  the  street. 

"I  suspect  I'm  in  wrong  there  all  right,"  said  Joe 
Lambert,  laughing.  "Mind,  though,  that  you  let 
me  know  if  he  annoys  you  at  all.  He  looks  like  a 
tough  customer  to  me." 

Except  for  this  encounter,  which  after  all  when 
you  thought  it  over  was  ominous  rather  in  imagina 
tion  than  in  reality,  there  was  not  a  cloud  upon  the 
day.  Having  accepted  Joe  Lambert  Miss  Luppy,  as 
was  her  way,  did  it  thoroughly.  We  found  her  in 
the  kitchen  when  we  went  to  return  the  key,  and 
her  eye  had  a  gleam  of  satisfied  proprietorship  as  it 
rested  on  the  young  man  who  as  her  Cousin  Eliza's 
husband's  grand-nephew  appeared  to  figure  in  her 
mind  as  a  near  relative.  Sitting  with  her  in  neigh 
borly  fashion  was  Mrs.  Morgan  in  her  rusty  black, 
her  worn  face  still  keeping,  for  all  its  brooding  look 
of  sorrow,  a  likeness  to  her  son's. 

"Here's  the  key,  Miss  Luppy,"  I  reported,  and 
hung  it  on  its  accustomed  nail.  "It's  a  fearfully 
spooky  old  place,  isn't  it  ?"  I  stopped  short,  remem- 


64         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

bering  Mrs.  Morgan's  connection  with  the  spooky 
old  place,  but  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  the 
hands  folded  on  her  lap.  We  retired  to  the  gloomy 
grandeur  of  the  parlor  while  Miss  Luppy  went  on 
getting  dinner,  and  some  time  later  I  saw  Mrs. 
Morgan  go  out  by  the  gate  into  the  lane. 

After  dinner  Kit  went  back  to  Asa  Cobb,  and  we 
two  strolled  out  into  the  garden.  It  was  a  fascinat 
ing  old  garden — gardens,  like  violins,  need  age  to 
mellow  them — secluded,  and  leafy,  and  crowded 
with  old-fashioned  flowers.  In  the  middle  was  a 
stone-rimmed  basin  presided  over  by  the  effigy  of  a 
pudgy  child  holding  an  umbrella.  When  the  foun 
tain  played — which  was  intermittently,  because  it 
was  always  getting  out  of  order  and  the  services  of 
Asa  Cobb  being  required  to  mend  it — a  jet  of  water 
rose  from  the  peak  of  the  umbrella  and  descended 
in  a  shower  of  rain.  This  object  of  art  was  much 
esteemed  at  the  Flat;  the  neat  conception  of  the 
umbrella  and  the  shower  never  lost  its  point  for  the 
admiring  citizenry. 

Beside  the  fountain  was  a  honeysuckle  arbor 
where  we  sat  while  Mr.  Lambert  smoked  an 
after-dinner  pipe,  and  we  decided  that  last 
names  were  out  of  place  at  Bandy's  Flat  and 
that  we  would  be  Joe  and  Sally  henceforth  and 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         65 

count  him  as  one  of  the  family,  having  for  this  the 
sanction  and  example  of  Miss  Luppy.  And  I  ex 
plained  again  about  Jimmie  Halliday,  and  Joe 
admitted  that  though  only  a  year  ago  it  did  no 
doubt  belong  with  that  childhood  which  was  now 
so  far  behind  me,  calendars  being  misleading  and 
taking  no  account  of  the  things  that  really  aged  you, 
far  more  than  mere  lapse  of  time.  For  I  knew  that 
I  had  grown  immensely  older  since  coming  on  my 
own  to  Bandy's;  a  decade  under  Arabella's  thumb 
wouldn't  have  counted  so.  And  he  insisted  I  was 
mistaken  about  his  having  thought  me  at  all  too 
young  that  day  at  Golconda.  He  said  it  was  impos 
sible  to  take  any  fixed  view  about  what  was  too 
young,  because — well,  certain  girls  seemed  always 
exactly  the  right  age.  When  I  asked  whether  he 
had  known  many  who  seemed  so  he  said  no,  scarcely 
any,  and  smoked  very  hard  in  silence.  But  he 
added,  after  quite  a  long  pause,  that  there  was  one 
girl  who  always  would,  whether  deliciously  young 
as  at  present,  or  after  years  and  years.  I  said  what, 
even  at  thirty?  And  he  said  of  course,  because  then 
he'd  be  thirty-six,  and  such  things  were  entirely 
relative.  And  anyway,  what  would  it  matter,  so 
long  as  she  was  the  girl  ?  Nothing  did  matter,  really, 
but  that. 


66         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Decidedly,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  at  bedtime  I  took 
my  good  night  look  at  the  glowing  mountain  stars, 
there  hadn't  been  a  cloud  upon  the  day.  Even  the 
faintly  unpleasant  episode  of  our  encounter  with 
Brett  Morgan  that  morning  seemed  unimportant 
now.  So  did  another,  still  smaller,  incident — the 
stirring  of  a  curtain  at  a  window  of  the  Morgan 
house,  as  I  stood  at  the  gate  that  afternoon,  watch 
ing  Joe  ride  away. 


CHAPTER  V 

THIS  meeting  with  Brett  Morgan  made  me  rea 
lize  more  sharply  that,  try  as  I  might  to  elude 
him,  encounters  like  this  were  certain  to  occur.  The 
handful  of  people  left  at  Bandy's  Flat  hardly  con 
stituted  a  crowd  among  which  one  could  conveniently 
lose  one's  self.  Unless  I  remained  permanently 
behind  the  barrier  of  Miss  Luppy's  garden  fence,  a 
person  bent  on  a  meeting  would  have  little  trouble 
in  bringing  it  about.  I  had  to  remind  myself  rather 
forcibly  that  there  was,  after  all,  nothing  alarming 
in  this  prospect,  that  the  emergency  would  be  one 
to  which  a  very  moderate  amount  of  courage  ought 
to  make  me  equal.  Brett  Morgan  wasn't  an  ogre, 
merely  a  young  man  quite  out  of  what  Arabella 
called  my  social  sphere,  and  requiring  to  have  that 
fact  brought  gently  but  firmly  to  his  attention. 
Only  at  Bandy's,  where  social  spheres  didn't  exist, 
there  was  a  difficulty  about  this  which  I  felt  might 
have  floored  Arabella  herself.  And  besides  I  knew 
well  enough,  in  spite  of  feeble  efforts  at  self-decep 
tion,  that  this  wasn't  the  crux  of  the  matter.  It 


68         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

was  Brett  Morgan  himself  to  whom  I  objected,  with 
a  warmth  which  was  perhaps  a  chemical  result  from 
the  presence  of  a  strong  element  of  fear.  Why  I 
feared  him  I  couldn't  say;  simply,  he  had  imposed 
himself  on  my  imagination  as  somehow  sinister  and 
portentous,  as  well  as  possessed  of  a  kind  of  dark 
personal  power — I  refused  to  call  it  fascination — 
which  intensely  as  I  rebelled  at  it  I  couldn't  alto 
gether  deny. 

The  event  so  plainly  inevitable  was  not  long  in 
coming  about.  Kit  being  now  more  difficult  than 
ever  to  detach  from  Asa  Cobb,  I  had  gone  myself 
one  morning  for  the  mail.  Such  activity  as  there 
was  at  Bandy's  was  concentrated  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  street,  where  its  cool  shade  met  the  hot  glare  of 
the  road.  Here  on  one  side  of  the  street  was  the 
Bonanza  House,  of  which  the  bar,  for  many  years 
the  only  part  of  the  establishment  showing  signs  of 
life,  was  now  of  course  closed  down.  On  the  other 
side  was  the  general  store  and  post-office.  The 
postmaster  and  owner  of  the  store  was  a  Mr.  Samuel 
Davis,  who  in  spite  of  his  fifty-odd  years  was  gen 
erally  known  as  Young  Sam,  because  of  a  paternal 
Old  Sam  still  clinging  to  a  moribund  existence. 

What  with  the  mail  and  various  errands  for  Miss 
Luppy,  I  had  been  to  the  store  so  often  that  I  was 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         69 

now  on  quite  intimate  terms  with  Young  Sam.  As 
he  was  of  a  friendly,  not  to  say  loquacious  disposi 
tion  I  might  have  found  our  interviews  amusing, 
had  the  faith  of  Mr.  Davis  in  the  fascinations  of  his 
son  Sam  the  Third  been  less  misplaced. 

This  scion  of  the  Davis  line  enjoyed  the  sobriquet 
of  Little  Sam,  having  been  endowed  with  it,  I  sup 
pose,  before  he  acquired  six  feet  or  more  of  sham 
bling  body.  He  had  enormous  feet,  which  seemed 
to  set  themselves  down  at  random  when  he  moved, 
to  the  damage  of  the  heterogeneous  merchandise 
with  which  the  store  was  crowded.  He  always  took 
to  cover  when  I  appeared,  so  that  my  arrival  was 
announced  by  the  banging  of  overturned  boxes  and 
the  clatter  of  hardware.  Once  safely  in  hiding  he 
would  peer  forth  with  fantastic  cranings  of  his  long 
neck  and  a  Cheshire-cat-like  grin  on  his  round  moon 
face.  Meanwhile  Young  Sam  would  exhort  me  to 
keep  up  hope  in  spite  of  this  discouraging  behavior. 

"Well,  I  swan,"  he  would  remark,  looking  about 
him  anxiously,  "if  that  boy  ain't  lit  out  again.  And 
jest  when  I  thought  I'd  got  him  to  the  sticking 
point,  where  he'd  step  up  like  a  little  man  and  let 
me  make  you  acquainted  with  him.  Sam,  Sam! 
Where  in  time  is  that  boy  ?  Expect  if  you're  ever  to 
git  to  speak  to  him  you'll  have  to  sneak  up  on  him 


70         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

sort  of  quiet-like.  Not  that  he  has  anythin'  ag'in' 
you,  you  understand;  it's  jest  his  bashful  natur' — 
scarier 'n  a  rabbit  of  a  petticoat.  But  jest  you  git 
the  ice  broke  once  and  I  bet  Sammy'll  be  easier 
hooked  'n  a  hungry  trout.  Them  quiet  ones  is  good 
stickers,  once  you  git  a  holt  on  'em." 

Thus  Young  Sam,  who  being  unable  to  see  across 
the  store  without  hi?  glasses,  was  unaware  of  Little 
Sam  ambushed  behind  a  sugar  barrel  and  regarding 
me  with  pale  unwinking  eyes  and  a  large  fixed  grin. 

On  this  particular  morning  as  I  waited  at  the 
post-office  window  for  the  mail  I  heard  a  step 
behind  me.  A  wicked  impulse  to  demoralize  Little 
Sam  by  catching  him  in  the  open  before  he  could 
retreat  made  me  turn  quickly.  But  instead  of  the 
alarmed  moon  face  of  Little  Sam  I  saw  the  darkly 
handsome  one  of  Brett  Morgan.  He  was  leaning 
on  the  counter  and  watching  me,  not  eagerly,  but 
with  the  tranquillity  of  the  hunter  who  sees  the 
bird  securely  limed. 

Well,  the  moment  I  had  foreseen  was  here,  and 
it  was  my  business  to  meet  it  in  a  fashion  which 
would  dispose  with  finality  of  Brett  Morgan.  I 
was  annoyed  to  find  my  heart  beating  rapidly.  My 
hand  trembled  as  I  gathered  up  the  letters  which 
Young  Sam  passed  out  through  the  window,  and  I 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         71 

even  welcomed  his  facetious  comments  on  the 
entirely  mythical  young  men  whose  devoted  out 
pourings  .  they  were  supposed  to  be.  It  meant  a 
moment  of  delay — and  then  I  pulled  myself  together 
angrily  and  went  out,  with  the  merest  nod  to  Brett 
Morgan  as  I  passed.  It  was  too  absurd  that  I 
should  let  myself  be  disturbed  in  this  fashion  by  a 
man  with  scarcely  a  claim  to  bare  acquaintance.  I 
would  take  a  leaf  out  of  Arabella's  book  and  adopt 
a  pose  of  cool  superiority  that  should  settle  any 
mountain-bred  rustic  of  them  all. 

But  when  I  heard  his  step  I  trembled.  Against 
my  will  I  looked  up  into  the  harshly  handsome  face, 
the  smoldering  dark  eyes,  of  the  man  who  was  at 
my  side. 

"How  fast  you  walk!"  he  said,  his  smile  telling 
me  plainly  that  he  understood  my  haste  and  the 
panic  that  had  prompted  it.  "Come,  don't  hurry 
so."  His  voice  was  at  once  authoritative  and 
caressing.  Involuntarily  I  found  my  steps  slacken, 
in  the  face  of  a  strong  impulse  to  break  into  a  run. 

"I  guess  you  been  used  to  fellows  of  a  different 
kind  from  me,"  Brett  Morgan  went  on.  "I  see  some 
o'  them  city-raised  swells  in  the  army — the  kind  I 
expect  you  been  in  the  habit  o'  knowin'.  Mebbe 
you  don't  think  it  makes  a  man  pretty  sore,  to  have 


72         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

some  kid  that  never  done  a  day's  work  in  his  life 
set  over  him,  and  givin'  him  orders  like  he  was  dirt 
and  all  that,  jest  because  the  guy  had  had  a  chance 
at  a  college  education.  The  way  I  been  brought  up, 
the  first  thing,  you  got  to  be  a  man.  No  Miss  Lily- 
fingers  would  git  far  in  some  o'  the  fixes  I  been  in. 
There  was  one  or  two  of  them  officers — say,  I'd 
like  to  git  'em  out  here  in  the  mountains  once, 
where  they  didn't  have  no  army  regulations  to  back 
'em  or  nothin'.  I'd  show  'em  a  few!"  His  face 
darkened  and  grew  fierce.  Strangely,  the  ferocity 
became  it.  It  might  have  been  a  terribly  beautiful 
mask  of  the  tragic  passions. 

"I'm  sorry  you  didn't  enjoy  your  army  experi 
ences,"  I  murmured  inanely. 

"Enjoy  'em !  Say,  does  a  wildcat  enjoy  bein'  put 
in  a  cage?  But  never  mind  that  now."  His  deep 
voice  mellowed  and  softened.  "I  was  only  talkin' 
about  me  bein'  a  different  kind  from  what  you  been 
brought  up  among.  Well,  I  understand  jest  the 
handicap  it  puts  me  under.  I'm  a  fellow  that  never 
had  a  show — though  mebbe  some  day — "  He 
broke  off  suddenly,  then  went  on.  "I  got  Spanish 
blood  in  me,  and  it's  blood  that's  hot  and  quick.  It 
don't  take  me  long  to  git  to  where  I  can't  hold  my 
self  in  very  well,  whether  it's  lovin'  or  hatin'.  I'll 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT          73 

be  goin'  along  jest  kind  of  peaceful,  not  worry  in' 
about  anythin'  in  particular,  and  then  all  at  once 
something,  happens,  mebbe  somethin'  that  wouldn't 
faze  another  fellow  worth  a  darn,  and  first  thing 
I'm  boilin'  up  like  the  Stony  in  a  spring  flood,  and 
no  more  able  to  git  a  grip  on  myself  than  a  chip 
whirlin'  along  in  the  foam.  I  love  that  way — and  I 
hate  that  way.  I  hated  that  way  when  I  saw  you 
and  Lambert  strollin'  round  town  together  here  last 
Sunday,  like  you  been  friends  from  way  back,  in 
stead  o'  never  knowin'  each  other  till  jest  now." 
(Asa  Cobb  got  that  from  Kit  and  has  told  the  whole 
town!  I  reflected.) 

"He  ain't  known  you  as  long  as  I  have,  yet  you 
treat  him  friendly  and  intimate,  and  me — oh,  I've 
known  well  enough  you  was  dodgin'  me,  Sally !" 

I  gasped.  We  had  come  to  Miss  Luppy's  gate, 
and  with  a  sense  of  escape  I  put  out  my  hand  to 
open  it.  But  Brett  Morgan  was  before  me.  A  quick 
movement  brought  him  between  me  and  the  gate, 
where  he  stood  resting  his  elbow  on  the  cross-bar. 
Thus  we  were  face  to  face,  and  I  got  the  full  bene 
fit  of  the  intense  dark  eyes  that  looked  into  mine 
and  held  them.  Fear  and  resistance  stirred  in  me, 
yet  I  continued  to  gaze  up  at  him,  helpless  as  a  rab 
bit  under  the  serpent's  spell. 


74         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"Sally--" 

"Don't  call  me  Sally,  please,"  I  interrupted,  rally 
ing  my  forces  feebly.  "You've  no  right  to." 

"How  can  I  call  you  anything  but  what  I'm  sayin' 
over  and  over  to  myself,  every  hour,  every  minute 
I'm  awake — yes,  and  in  my  dreams  too?"  he  de 
manded,  that  hot  spark  which  seemed  always  to 
smolder  in  his  eyes  leaping  into  life.  "Would  I 
be  thinkin'  Miss  Armsby,  do  you  suppose,  while  I'm 
watchin'  for  a  sight  of  you  all  day,  or  for  the  light 
in  your  winder  at  night?  No,  you're  Sally  in  my 
thoughts  and  on  my  lips  too,  when  there  ain't  no  one 
round  to  hear — I'm  too  hard  hit  for  anything  else. 
It  was  the  very  first  sight  of  you  done  it,  too,  Sally, 
the  first  sight  of  you  there — there  in  my  mother's 
house.  I've  seen  a  lot  o'  girls  besides  country  girls 
since  I  been  knockin'  round,  but  never  one  that  could 
touch  you,  you  beauty,  you  little  peach !  Oh,  Sally, 
give  me  a  chance!  Mebbe  I  look  to  you  now  like 
jest  a  low-down  roughneck,  but  I  tell  you  straight  I 
got  chances  that  a  good  many  that  think  they're 
some  class  would  give  their  eye-teeth  for.  Let  luck 
jest  play  a  little  bit  my  way,  and  I'll  be  able  to  do  as 
good  for  you  when  it  comes  to  money  as  any  o' 
these  here  white-collared  fellows  you  know — yes, 
and  a  whole  lot  better.  Sally,  leave  me  have  a 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         75 

show!  Leave  me  keep  company  with  you  while 
you're  here,  and  if  I  can't  git  you  to  carin'  for  me 
before  the  summer's  over  I  swear  I'll  never  bother 
you  again.  Sally,  say  you  will!" 

Under  this  amazing  outburst  I  had  felt  myself 
grow  pale,  less  at  the  words  themselves  than  at  the 
passion  and  intensity  in  the  man's  face  and  voice. 
This  wasn't  a  boy,  I  remembered;  this  wasn't 
Jimmie  Halliday,  who  had  been  so  furious  when  I 
wouldn't  give  him  my  address  or  let  him  write  to 
me  this  summer  that  he  had  sent  me  back  my  photo 
graph  arid  asked  for  his — which  I  couldn't  send  on 
account  of  having  accidentally  squirted  ginger  ale 
on  it  at  a  dormitory  feed  at  school.  Jimmie's 
heroics  hadn't  moved  me;  I  had  seen  him  as  a  little 
ridiculous  even  before  that  great  revolution  in  my 
mind  and  character  which  seemed  to  have  been 
accomplished  by  this  trip  to  Bandy's  Flat.  But 
Brett  Morgan  one  couldn't  laugh  at;  poor  as  his 
words  were,  there  was  that  about  the  man  which 
gave  them  force  and  power.  One  trembled,  rather, 
at  the  sense  of  something  primitive  and  dangerous, 
elemental  and  untamed,  threatening  to  break 
through  a  thin  veneer  of  civilization.  So  I  stood 
pale  and  tongue-tied,  overwhelmed  by  his  unex 
pected  torrent  of  pleading. 


;6         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

As  if  my  confusion  gave  him  confidence  he  came 
nearer. 

"Sally,"  he  began,  on  a  deeper  note  of  his  rich 
voice,  "you  don't  need  to  answer  now.  Jest  don't 
say  nothin',  and  leave  things  go  on — leave  me  have 
my  chance.  I  swear  you  won't  be  sorry,  girlie!" 

He  smiled,  and  with  the  smile  somehow  the  spell 
his  deadly  earnestness  had  put  upon  me  broke.  Sud 
denly  I  had  slipped  around  him  and  in  at  the  gate. 
With  that  between  us  I  found  breath  to  speak. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Morgan,  I'm  so  sorry — but  please  don't 
think  of  anything  like  this  any  more !  I  couldn't — I 
couldn't  really!  Please  let's  forget  that  you  ever 
spoke  this  way — it  will  be  much  better." 

He  stood  looking  at  me  across  the  gate  in  silence, 
his  face  ominously  darkening. 

"You  mean  you  won't  stand  for  me  comin'  round 
you,  like  that  guy  Lambert  does?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Please  leave  Mr.  Lambert  out  of  the  question," 
I  requested,  with  a  belated  attempt  at  dignity. 

He  stared  at  me  somberly  from  beneath  his  low 
ered  brows.  "Not  much.  That's  jest  what  I  ain't 
goin'  to  do,"  he  announced  with  a  kind  of  still, 
suppressed  violence.  "He's  right  in  the  question — 
in  the  very  middle  of  it,  so  long  as  you  let  him  hang 
round  you  like  he  done  last  Sunday.  What  right 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         77 

has  he  got  that  I  ain't?  Ain't  I  a  white  man? 
Ain't  I  known  you  as  long?" 

"Mr.  Lambert  is  a — a  kind  of  relation  of  Miss 
Luppy's,"  I  said,  moved  to  at  least  a  show  of  cour 
age  by  his  insolence.  "Besides  that,  he  saved  my 
brother's  life." 

"And  besides  that,  he's  one  of  these  here  college 
willieboys,  ain't  he?"  demanded  Morgan,  anger  be 
ginning  to  break  from  him  like  lightnings  from  a 
brooding  cloud.  "He's  a  willieboy  and  I'm  a 
roughneck,  huh?  He's  got  a  job  and  I'm  hangin' 
round  here  without  one.  Well,  you  wait,  that's  all. 
Mebbe  I'll  cross  his  path  yet  in  ways  he  nor  you 
don't  think  for.  Mebbe  I'll  be  livin'  soft  and  easy 
when  he's  still  huntin'  engineerin'  jobs  at  a  couple 
o'  hundred  per.  But  let  me  tell  you  this,  Sally  girl, 
if  that  there  guy  values  his  skin  or  you  value  it  for 
him,  don't  you  show  him  too  much  favor ;  don't  you 
let  me  see  him  a-danglin'  round  here  so  awful  much. 
I  told  you  I  got  Spanish  blood,  and  it  goes  with  that 
to  even  up  pretty  well  with  any  one  that  does  you 
dirt." 

He  turned  and  strode  rapidly  away. 

On  Saturday  at  supper-time  came  Joe,  riding  the 
buckskin  which  for  unknown  reasons  he  called  the 


78         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Grumpy-horse.  Miss  Luppy  had  invited  him 
to  come  down  for  overnight  whenever  he  pleased 
and  he  was  taking  her  at  her  word.  So  he 
told  her  with  his  big  frank  laugh,  adding  that  she 
had  better  not  treat  him  too  well  or  he  might  con 
clude  to  move  down  altogether;  he  said  he  had 
been  able  to  think  of  nothing  all  week  but  the  dinner 
she  had  given  him  last  Sunday.  Miss  Luppy  gave 
a  skeptical  sniff,  though  you  saw  she  was  pleased 
enough  to  purr.  I  never  was  quite  certain  why  Joe 
Lambert  so  obviously  found  favor  in  her  sight, 
whether  on  the  ground  purely  of  their  much  atten 
uated  relationship,  whether  because  he  took  her  so 
fearlessly  and  humorously,  or  because  for  all  her 
austere  spinsterhood  she  had  really  a  heart  no 
harder  than  another's  for  personable  young  men. 

Out  in  the  honeysuckle  arbor,  later,  Joe  owned  it 
was  mere  camouflage  about  the  dinner  and  that  he 
had  really  been  thinking  all  week  about  something 
entirely  different.  And  he  asked  did  I  mind  his 
coming  again  so  soon,  and  I  said  rather  faintly  no, 
of  course  not,  it  was  quite  all  right.  Because  at  the 
back  of  my  mind  all  the  while  was  the  thought  of 
Brett  Morgan  and  his  threat ;  a  threat  which  might 
be  and  probably  was  all  talk,  but  which  held  for  me 
an  element  of  terror  in  its  very  vagueness.  It  was, 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         79 

of  course,  too  absurd,  in  the  twentieth  century,  to 
think  of  one  man  waylaying  another  out  of  jealousy, 
but  then  JBrett  Morgan,  you  felt,  didn't  belong  in  the 
twentieth  century.  Neither,  in  a  sense,  did  Bandy's 
Flat,  but  was  simply  a  fossilized  survival  of  the 
1 850'$,  with  the  untamed  spirit  of  those  riotous  old 
days  still  hovering  over  it,  and  eager,  perhaps,  to 
come  to  life  in  some  wild  deed.  I  wondered  much 
that  evening,  as  I  had  wondered  ever  since  the  thing- 
occurred,  whether  I  should  tell  Joe  of  Morgan's 
enmity.  The  difficulty  was  that  I  would  also  have 
to  tell  Joe  why  Morgan  hated  him,  that  it  was  on 
my  account  and  as  a  rival,  and  this  required  a  braz- 
enness  beyond  me.  Even  the  thought  of  it,  as  often 
as  it  came  to  me,  made  my  cheeks  burn.  And  yet  I 
did  think  of  it,  as  we  sat  in  the  arbor,  or  strolled 
in  the  garden,  or  played  casino  like  uncrowned 
martyrs  with  Miss  Luppy  and  Kit  around  the  table 
in  the  sitting-room.  Always  I  saw  the  fierce  black 
eyes  and  heard  the  sullen  voice :  "I  told  you  I  got 
Spanish  blood  and  it  goes  with  that  to  even  up 
pretty  well  with  any  one  that  does  you  dirt — " 

That  I  really  expected  a  knife  or  a  bullet  to  arrive 
suddenly  among  us  as  the  messenger  of  Brett  Mor 
gan's  vengence  I  can't  say.  But  at  least  a  vague 
expectancy  of  evil  haunted  me,  and  it  was  with  a 


8o         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

sense  of  relief  that  I  hailed  the  coming  of  bedtime 
* — postponed  to  the  unhallowed  hour  of  ten  in  honor 
of  the  guest — and  knew  the  evening  safely  over.  I 
could  even,  in  the  light  of  their  non-fulfillment, 
reflect  on  the  absurdity  of  my  fears  as  I  went  up 
stairs  to  bed,  leaving  Joe  to  his  repose  in  the  down 
stairs  sleeping-room  which  had  been  Bandy  Bates's 
own. 

It  was  that  rare  thing  in  California,  a  stiflingly 
hot  night.  Thunder  muttered  far  away  among  the 
mountains,  and  the  sky  was  starless  and  lowering. 
Whether  my  nerves  were  jumpy  for  this  reason,  or 
because  of  my  worry  about  Joe  and  Brett  Morgan  I 
don't  know,  but  at  least  I  couldn't  sleep.  For  two 
hours  I  tossed,  half  dozing  sometimes,  then  waking 
with  a  start  to  vague  apprehensions,  the  echo  of 
those  that  had  haunted  me  that  evening.  At  last 
in  despair  I  sat  up.  With  every  window  open  the 
room  seemed  close.  I  rose,  threw  a  light  robe  about 
me,  and  stepped  out  on  the  porch  that  ran  before 
my  windows,  where  I  paced  up  and  down  in  the 
darkness,  trying  to  cool  the  feverish  unrest  which 
kept  my  blood  racing. 

At  last  at  the  corner  of  the  porch  I  paused  and 
stood  looking  down  on  the  garden.  It  lay  below  me 
invisible  in  the  murky  dark,  but  sending  up  a  fra- 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         81 

grant  breath  of  the  growing  things  that  slept  there, 
undisturbed  by  the  dim  fears  that  kept  me  wakeful. 
I  was  turning  to  go,  thinking  that  now  I  would  be 
quiet  enough  to  sleep,  when  from  somewhere  out 
beyond  the  garden  I  caught  a  gleam  of  light. 

It  was  a  faint  gleam,  but  steady.  And  it  came 
from  the  point  where,  at  the  end  of  a  vista  between 
trees,  the  side  wall  of  the  old  saloon  was  visible  by 
day,  to  one  who  stood  as  I  was  standing  now,  in  the 
angle  of  the  porch  railing.  Experimentally  I 
moved  a  little.  The  light  disappeared.  I  resumed 
my  position,  and  there  it  was.  I  remembered  the 
small  window  high  up  in  the  wall — through  this,  it 
must  be,  the  light  was  shining,  though  shining  was 
too  strong  a  word  for  that  faint  and  feeble  ray.  It 
suggested  a  candle  or  a  lamp  set  at  a  lower  level 
than  the  window.  But  what  was  lamp  or  candle 
doing  in  that  place,  and  at  this  hour?  Beyond  the 
fact  that  it  was  impossible  to  conceive  of  a  reason 
for  anybody  wanting  to  go  there,  was  not  the  door 
locked  and  the  key  hanging  on  the  nail  beside  our 
kitchen  window?  How  had  any  one  outside  the 
house  got  possession  of  it  to-night?  As  to  any  one 
inside  the  house — 

I  put  the  thought  from  me  quickly  and  stood 
waiting,  thinking  that  when  the  bearer  of  the  light 


82         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

emerged  from  the  building  I  might  see  where  he 
went.  But  the  ray  continued  to  shine  steadily 
though  faintly  from  the  window,  and  by  and  by  I 
turned  away  and  went  slowly  to  my  room.  There 
almost  at  once,  as  though  overstrained  nature  had 
provided  its  own  narcotic,  I  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

But  I  was  awake  early  and  down-stairs,  astonish 
ing  Miss  Luppy  by  my  promptness.  Yes,  there  was 
the  key  on  its  nail  by  the  window.  I  felt  a  miser 
able  little  chill  of  disappointment.  Only  then  did  I 
realize  how  I  had  counted  on  finding  it  gone — 
because  then  I  could  be  sure  that  some  one  outside 
the  house  had  taken  it.  But  it  was  no  one  outside 
the  house.  And  if  no  one  outside  the  house — ? 

But  why,  why,  why?  When  we  had  gone 
through  the  place  together,  when  he  might  have  the 
key  any  time  for  the  asking  ?  What  was  he  looking 
for  in  the  old  saloon — and  why  look  for  it,  like  a 
thief,  secretly  and  in  the  dead  of  night?  And  then 
he  came  into  the  room,  his  thick  fair  hair  still  damp 
and  his  tanned  cheeks  glowing  from  his  tub.  He 
said  good  morning  briskly  to  Miss  Luppy,  but  his 
brightening  eyes  sought  mine — that  fell  shamed 
before  them.  No,  I  couldn't  meet  his  eyes  and  sus 
pect  him — well,  of  what  did  I  suspect  him,  after  all  ? 
Not,  certainly,  of  any  evil  purpose,  however  mysti- 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         83 

fying  that  secret  midnight  visit  to  the  old  saloon 
might  be.  No,  if  it  had  been  he — and  how  it  could 
have  been  any  other  it  seemed,  in  the  face  of  the 
key's  miite  testimony,  impossible  to  imagine — he 
had  had  a  reason.  It  was  a  reason  not  now  to  be 
explained,  perhaps,  but  still  a  reason  which  I  must, 
I  would,  accept  on  faith.  Some  time  I  would  under 
stand;  now,  I  would  believe. 

So  it  came  about  that  neither  to  Joe  nor  to  any 
one  did  I  speak  of  the  light  I  had  seen  at  midnight 
in  the  old  saloon. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ASA  COBB  had  a  mortal  enemy  in  town,  one 
Eben  Gregg,  a  bachelor  in  the  comparatively 
juvenile  fifties,  on  whom  a  certain  Lorena  Pettis — 
still  at  forty-three  known  as  "Mis'  Pettis's  girl  Lo 
rena" — was  understood  to  look  with  the  eye  of  favor. 
What  he  and  Asa  Cobb  had  fallen  out  about  was 
lost  now  in  the  mists  of  antiquity.  Probably  they 
did  not  remember  themselves.  But  the  quarrel, 
whatever  its  cause,  had  long  since  settled  down  into  a 
steady  feud.  Hating  Eben  Gregg  was  one  of  the 
main  occupations  of  Asa  Cobb's  life.  Another  was 
chuckling  over  his  own  cleverness  in  having  out 
lived  the  late  Mrs.  Cobb,  in  spite  of  her  predictions 
to  the  contrary.  Mrs.  Cobb  had  been  a  member  of 
a  sect  called  by  themselves  the  Peculiar  People.  As 
the  Peculiar  People  claimed,  as  chief  among  their 
special  blessings,  a  truly  patriarchal  length  of  days, 
it  followed  that  the  unbeliever  to  whom  Mrs.  Cobb 
was  unequally  yoked  would  depart  this  life  a  long 
while  in  advance  of  his  spouse.  Mrs.  Cobb  did  not 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         85 

fail  with  due  frequency  to  point  this  out,  and  had 
even  composed  an  appropriate  epitaph  which  she 
had  worked  on  cardboard  in  black  worsted  and 
hung  above  the  mantel  in  the  sitting-room.  It  was 
still  there  when  I  saw  it,  imparting  to  Mr.  Cobb 
vast  satisfaction  of  a  kind  he  was  especially  fitted 
to  enjoy. 

Here  Asa  Cobb  doth  lie  in  long  repose, 
Laid  low  as  ever  are  Religion's  foes. 
His  widow  Martha,  by  true  Faith  protected, 
Survives  him  still  to  have  this  Stone  erected. 

"There  you  have  it,"  said  Asa  Cobb  triumphantly, 
on  the  occasion  of  exhibiting  it  to  me.  "It's  worked 
real  neat,  ain't  it?  Martha  was  as  smart  as  the 
next  one  with  her  needle,  if  I  do  say  it.  'Survives 
him  still  to  have  this  stone  erected/  Twas  what 
that  woman  would  call  to  my  notice  every  time  we 
had  a  little  argument.  And  all  because  I  was  a 
Methody  and  she  a  Peculiar !  And  then  she'd  hint 
that  after  I  was  gone  she  might  feel  it  on  her  con 
science  to  take  a  Peculiar  for  Number  Two,  on 
account  pf  this  world's  goods  bein'  not  any  too 
plenty  among  'em,  and  her  havin'  the  house  and  all. 
'Woman,'  says  I,  'that  there  Peculiar,  if  such  there 
be,  that's  a-settin'  round  waitin'  to  devour  my  sub 
stance  along  o'  my  widder,'  says  I,  'he's  got  quite  a 


86         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

spell  to  set  yet.  Methody  though  I  be,  I'll  back 
myself  as  a  setter  ag'in'  any  Peculiar  of  them  all/  I 
says.  And  at  that  she  flares  up  and  she  says, 
'You're  a  child  o'  wrath  and  I'll  have  no  truck  with 
you,'  she  says,  'and  I'm  a-goin'  now  to  lay  away  my 
best  black  woolen  that  I  ain't  had  but  four  years  for 
your  funeral,'  she  says. 

"  'Lay  it  away  all  you  like,  I'll  live  to  lay  you 
away  in  it!'  I  yells,  and  gosh  darn  me  if  I  didn't! 
Peculiar  here  or  Peculiar  there,  Mis'  Cobb  up  and 
died  o'  the  quinzy  that  winter  before  you  could  say 
scat,  and  here  be  the  old  Methody  a-livin'  yet !" 

"Did  you  have  a  stone  put  over  her?"  I  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  yet.  Stones  comes 
high,  with  the  carvin'  and  all,  and  seems  like  I  allus 
wanted  the  money  for  other  things.  But  I'm 
a-layin'  by  for  it  little  by  little,  and  I  got  the  poetry 
part  all  worked  out.  See  here." 

He  produced  from  a  dilapidated  pocketbook  a 
much-creased  sheet  of  paper,  which  he  offered  me 
with  a  satisfied  air. 

"That's  what  I'm  a-layin'  by  for  to  have  put  on 
the  stone,"  he  said  pridefully. 

Here  lies  the  mortal  part  of  Martha  Cobb, 
Who  aimed  to  be  a  widow  but  bungled  the  job 
By  catching  a  Quinzy  what  laid  her  low, 
In  December,  1913  years  ago. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         87 

This  is  erected  by  her  husband  who  outlives  her  yet, 
And  often  comes  here  in  his  spare  time  to  set, 
And  think  how  'twas  expected  to  be  contrariwise 
By  her  who  underneath  this  stone  now  lies. 

"I've  left  a  blank  for  the  number  of  years  ago," 
he  pointed  out,  "bein'  as  I  can't  foresee  how  many 
'twill  be  when  I  get  the  stone  put  up.  But  what  do 
you  say  to  that  for  rhymin',  now?" 

"It's  quite  remarkable,"  I  said  truthfully.  "But 
don't  you  think  eight  years — it's  that  already,  you 
know — is  rather  a  long  while  to  hold  a  grudge  ?" 

"'Twas  a  good  deal  more,  than  eight  that  she 
was  a  Peculiar  and  a-prophesyin'  mornin',  noon  and 
night  about  me  dyin'  and  she  not,"  he  answered 
doggedly.  "I  ain't  near  even  with  her  yet." 

So  it  will  be  seen  that  Mr.  Cobb  was  by  no  means 
of  a  soft  or  forgiving  nature.  And  his  capacity  for 
rancor  found  vent  in  his  feud  with  Eben  Gregg. 

Kit,  as  a  new  and  respectful  auditor,  got  the  full 
benefit  of  Mr.  Cobb's  eloquence  on  the  subject. 
And  of  course  the  more  mephistophelian  Mr.  Gregg 
loomed,  the  more  he  held  Kit's  fascinated  eye.  Kit 
would  desist  from  the  most  enthralling  occupations, 
such  as  chasing  the  Bonanza  House  cat,  or  luring 
tarantulas  into  a  wide-necked  pickle-bottle,  or  help 
ing  Little  Sam  sweep  out  the  store,  to  glower  at 


88         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Eben  Gregg  with  an  expression  compounded  of 
ferocious  loyalty  to  Asa  Cobb  and  admiration  of 
such  really  superior  villainy. 

On  an  evening  after  supper  I  was  sitting  on  the 
porch  steps,  where  Kit  for  a  wonder  was  favoring 
me  with  his  society.  I  had  just  opened  my  lips  to 
inquire  whether  I  owed  this  privilege  to  the  indis 
position  of  Asa  Cobb,  when  Kit,  who  had  been 
fidgeting  about  in  an  uneasy  fashion,  suddenly,  and 
with  the  air  of  one  who  decides  to  free  his  mind, 
asked  if  I  had  heard  that  Eben  Gregg  had  left  town. 

I  replied  indifferently  that  I  had  not. 

"I  guess  nobody  else  has,  either/'  he  said  in  a 
tone  of  profound  significance,  "only  I  just  happen 
to  know  he  has,  that's  all." 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  I  remarked.  "We're  not  his 
keepers,  are  we?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  pitying  contempt. 

"Say,  did  it  ever  strike  you  that  a  head  was  to 
use?"  he  inquired  sardonically.  "If  he'd  left  town 
like — like  any  one  would,  he'd  have  gone  on  the 
stage,  wouldn't  he?  And  every  one  would  have 
known  about  it,  wouldn't  they?  And  there  would 
have  been  a  lot  of  talk  about  where  he  went,  and 
what  he  went  for,  and  everything.  That's  the  way 
it  would  have  been,  but  it  wasn't," 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         89 

The  mysterious,  not  to  say  incoherent,  nature  of 
this  speech  caught  my  attention  a  little. 

"Well,-  if  it  isn't,  I  should  say,  if  you  give  me 
three  guesses,  that  he  probably  hasn't  gone,"  I 
hazarded. 

"Then  why  isn't  he  around  anywhere  ?"  demanded 
Kit,  with  an  irritation  clearly  due  to  my  having 
failed  to  grasp  some  obscure  but  vital  point.  "If 
he  hadn't  left  town  he'd  be  here,  wouldn't  he?  A 
man  can't  just  not  be  anywhere  all  of  a  sudden,  can 
he?" 

I  acknowledged  the  seeming  impossibility  of  this. 
"But  how  do  you  know  he  isn't  here?"  I  persisted. 

"  'Cause  I  keep  my  eyes  open,  that's  how,"  he 
declared  emphatically.  "  'Cause  when  I  know  a 
man  needs  watching  like  Eben  Gregg  does — Mr. 
Cobb  says  so — 'thout  making  a  fuss  or  anything  I 
just  naturally  keep  my  eyes  open,  that's  all.  That's 
how  I  came  to  notice  way  back  last  week  that  Eben 
Gregg's  house  was  shut  up.  And  then  I  went  on 
noticing,  and  it's  been  shut  up  right  along.  There 
hasn't  been  a  window  opened  or  anything.  I  tell 
you,  Sally,  Eben  Gregg  just  isn't  there  any  more, 
that's  all." 

I  rose  abruptly.  "Kit  Armsby,  it's  just  forty 
times  as  likely  that  he  is  there,  but  hurt  or  ill  and 


90         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

with  no  way  to  get  any  help.  Why  on  earth  didn't 
you  speak  of  it  before  ?  Let's  go  right  up  there  now 
and  find  out  what's  the  matter." 

Though  rejecting  with  contempt  this  simple  solu 
tion  of  the  mystery  he  had  manufactured,  Kit  con 
sented  to  put  it  to  the  test,  and  we  set  out  at  once 
for  Eben  Gregg's  cottage.  This  stood  some  dis 
tance  up  the  road  beyond  Miss  Luppy's,  and  quite 
apart  from  any  other  dwelling.  From  the  rear 
fence  the  cliff  dropped  away  abruptly  into  the  mine, 
and  across  the  road  in  front  the  dismal  little  ceme 
tery  lay  on  the  slope  of  the  hill.  There  was  every 
possibility  that  Eben  Gregg  might  have  been  ill  and 
helpless  here  for  days,  without  any  one  in  the  Flat 
discovering  it. 

Nevertheless,  the  little  place  had  a  distinctly  shut- 
up  and  deserted  look.  The  blinds  of  the  two  front 
windows  had  been  closed.  A  knock  at  the  front 
door  brought  no  answer,  and  when  we  tried  it  it 
was  locked. 

"Let's  go  round  to  the  back,"  I  suggested, 
though  not  without  an  inward  qualm  at  the  thought 
that  death  might  have  visited  Eben  Gregg  here  in 
his  solitude.  I  opened  the  gate  and  went  in,  fol 
lowed  by  Kit  wearing  an  expression  of  portentous 
gloom. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         91 

The  back  windows  likewise  had  their  blinds 
drawn,  and  the  door  at  which  I  rapped  vigorously 
repaid  our  efforts  to  open  it  with  the  rattle  of  a  shot 
bolt.  Nothing  stirred  about  the  place  except  a 
small  gray  cat,  which  appeared  suddenly  from 
somewhere  and  began  mewing  about  our  feet.  You 
saw  that  she  was  lonely  and  very  glad  of  a  human 
touch  and  voice. 

There  was  no  question  here  of  death  or  illness. 
By  every  outward  sign  it  was  obvious  that  Eben 
Gregg  had  carefully  locked  his  house  and  gone  away. 

"But  still  I  see  nothing  startling  about  it/'  I  in 
sisted,  when  we  were  out  in  the  road  again,  the  gray 
cat  trotting  anxiously  at  our  heels.  "And  anyway 
it  doesn't  concern  us." 

"Well,  I'm  a  friend  of  Asa  Cobb,  I  guess,  ain't 
I?"  demanded  Kit  truculently.  I  conceded  this. 

"And  if  anybody  was  to  go  and  do  anything  on 
purpose  to  make  things  look  bad  for  Mr.  Cobb  I 
guess  it  would  be  my  business  to  kind  of  find  out 
about  it,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Look  bad  for  Mr.  Cobl>-how?" 

"Well,  make  it  look  as  if — Mr.  Cobb  might  have 
murdered  him — " 

"Murdered  him?  Asa  Cobb  murder  Eben 
Gregg?" 


92         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"Don't  holler  so !"  he  commanded  fiercely.  "You 
don't  want  to  be  the  first  to  start  it,  do  you  ?  All  it 
needs  is  somebody  to  start  'em  and  there's  folks 
round  this  town  that'll  say  any  fool  thing — Mr. 
Cobb  told  me  so.  And  when  I  kind  of  mentioned  to 
him  about  Eben  Gregg  not  being  anywheres  round 
he  said  right  off,  That  'ere  skunk  is  just  pizen 
enough  to  go  break  his  own  neck  or  something  and 
then  pin  a  note  on  hisself  to  say  I  done  it. 
'Twouldn't  be  anything  for  him  to  do  if  so's  he 
could  git  me  to  swing  for  it,' — that's  just  what  Mr. 
Cobb  said." 

"And  so  your  idea  is  to  find  the  corpse  and  take 
the  note  off?" 

He  stood  still  in  the  road  to  survey  me  with  a 
fine  scorn. 

"That's  right,  laugh!  Just  laugh  good  and  hard 
at  me  doing  what  it's  my  business  to  do  as  a  friend 
of  Mr.  Cobb!  Would  you  want  me  to  let  the  note 
stay  on?  Don't  you  know  a  trick  like  that  of  Eben 
Gregg's  would  fool  most  any  jury  in  this  state? 
Don't  you  know  there's  a  heap  of  juries  that  would 
rather  be  fooled  than  not  ?  Mr.  Cobb  says  so.  And 
if  he  isn't  dead,  on  account  of  not  having  the  nerve 
for  it  or  something,  then  it's  up  to  me,  isn't  it,  to 
find  out  where  he  is  and  get  the  goods  on  him  so  as 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         93 

every,  one  will  know  just  what  kind  of  game  he  is 
trying  to  play." 

Though  I  had  always  known  that  Kit  was  im 
mensely  my  superior  in  the  sublime  faculty  of  imag 
ination,  I  was  unprepared  for  such  a  flight  as  this. 
But  I  didn't  repeat  the  unpardonable  sin  of  laughing. 

"Well,  good  luck  to  you,"  I  said  placatingly. 
"Isn't  it  important,  though,  before  you  begin  to 
hunt  a  missing  person,  to  have  what  they  call  a 
clue?  I  thought  detectives  always  had.  In  fact,  I 
should  think  one  might  waste  a  great  deal  of  time 
without  one.  Because  you  might  look  in  so  many 
wrong  places  first — "  I  indicated  the  landscape 
generally  with  a  comprehensive  gesture. 

"Huh,  you  must  think  I'm  green !"  he  gibed.  "A 
clue — why,  a  clue  is  the  very  thing  I'm  watching 
out  for  everywhere  right  now.  I  expect  to  pick  up 
one  most  any  time  that'll  land  me  right  on  Eben 
Gregg's  trail.  I'm  not  telling  any  one,  of  course, 
not  even  Mr.  Cobb,  'cause  if  it  got  out  that  I  was 
trailing  Gregg  like  as  not  he'd  hear  of  it  and  take 
extra  care  to  cover  up  his  tracks — that  is,  if  he  isn't 
dead.  What  I'll  do  is  just  hang  round,  and  keep 
awful  quiet,  and  have  my  eyes  open  all  the  time — 
and  I  bet  there  won't  much  happen  in  this  town 
that  will  get  by  met" 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  Fourth  of  July  was  now  at  hand,  and  the 
day  was  to  be  celebrated  in  the  accustomed 
fashion  of  Bandy's  Flat  by  a  dance  in  the  opera- 
house.  I  think  Bandy's  was  prouder  of  the  opera- 
house  than  of  anything  else  within  its  limits,  not 
excepting  the  bronze  child  with  the  umbrella  which 
presided  over  our  fountain.  Elsewhere,  I  suppose, 
the  opera-house  would  have  been  called  a  hall,  for 
the  little  stage  at  one  end  was  only  some  two  feet 
above  the  general  level  and  provided  with  the  most 
modest  adjuncts  in  the  way  of  tattered  wings  and 
moldy  back-drop,  which  could  hardly,  even  in  their 
pristine  freshness,  have  created  illusions  of  splendor. 
Nevertheless,  in  the  good  old  days  Booth  had 
played  there,  and  famous  operatic  stars  had  sung, 
to  an  audience  able  and  willing  to  pay  lavishly  for 
the  entertainment.  In  these  earlier  and  gayer  years 
the  place  had  likewise  been  much  used  for  dancing, 
so  that  the  stout  oak  floor  was  somewhat  pitted 
with  scars  from  the  nails  in  the  miners'  boots.  But 
it  was  a  very  good  floor  still. 

94 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         95 

At  the  suggestion  of  a  dance  at  the  Flat  I  had 
shown  rather  too  candidly  my  surprise. 

"But  who  will  come  to  it  ?"  I  inquired.  The  vision 
of  various  hobbling  ancients  like  Old  Sam  Davis 
disporting  themselves  at  a  dance  was  too  much  for 
my  credulity.  And  the  able-bodied  population  was 
pathetically  scanty. 

"Well,  the  Fourth  o'  July  dance  has  been  held 
every  year  for  the  last  twenty  to  my  knowledge,  and 
there's  always  a  plenty  come  to  it,"  said  Miss  Luppy 
tartly.  "  Tain't  a  thing  any  Flatter  would  stay 
away  from  while  he  was  able  to  walk,  I  expect." 

Asa  Cobb,  who  was  present,  went  further  still. 
"More'n  that,  I've  known  'em  when  they  couldn't 
walk  to  have  theirselves  toted,"  he  declared. 
"  Twas  so  with  Loreny  Pettis's  pa ;  he  got  'em  to 
lug  him  down  there  so's  he  could  look  on,  only  the 
week  before  he  died.  Mis'  Pettis,  she  was  worried 
they  wouldn't  git  him  home  alive;  she  said  'twould 
have  seemed  to  her  a  real  ungodly  thing  to  pass  out 
at  a  dance." 

It  developed  that  a  large  part  of  the  attendance  at 
Bandy's  annual  dance  was  from  the  outlying  re 
gions,  people  coming  from  remote  ranches,  from 
lumber-camps,  and  even  from  Golconda,  for  the 
occasion.  As  the  holiday  wore  on  the  main  street 


96         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

became  quite  blocked  with  vehicles,  ranch  wagons, 
buckboards,  flivvers.  Men  and  a  few  girls  arrived 
on  horseback.  The  street  was  decorated  with  flags 
and  red,  white  and  blue  bunting  strung  across  it  on 
ropes.  The  Flat  was  intensely  patriotic.  Its  people 
were  almost  purely  of  the  old  American  stock,  and 
several  of  the  men  were  veterans  of  the  Civil  War. 
In  the  happy  past  the  celebration  of  the  nation's 
birthday  had  lasted  all  day  long  and  included  horse- 
racing,  a  barbecue,  fireworks  and  a  band,  as  well  as 
an  oration,  usually  by  Bandy  Bates  himself.  In 
these  times  of  diminished  prosperity  and  population 
all  that  survived  of  the  former  festivities  was  the 
dance  in  the  evening,  which  had  once  been  the 
climax  of  a  hectic  day.  Before  this  last  vestige  of 
the  Flat's  glory  would  be  abandoned,  I  was  given 
to  understand,  the  last  Flatter  would  have  descended 
to  the  grave  and  the  sun  set  on  Bandy's  forever. 

Joe  Lambert  had  been  invited,  of  course,  or 
rather,  Miss  Luppy  had  given  him  to  understand 
that  Bandy's  expected  every  man  to  do  his  duty  in 
the  matter  of  attendance.  He  and  the  Grumpy- 
horse  arrived  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon.  Miss 
Luppy,  as  the  most  notable  housekeeper  in  town, 
had  been  busy  all  the  preceding  day,  baking,  frying 
doughnuts,  icing  cakes  and  otherwise  contributing 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         97 

to  the  supper  which  was  a  prominent  feature  of  the 
occasion.  Indeed,  appetizing  fragrances  had  been 
issuing  from  every  house  which  contained  an  able- 
bodied  woman.  Female  heads  bristled  with  curl 
papers,  and  Jem  Hicks,  who  cobbled  shoes  and  bar- 
bered  with  equal  dexterity,  had  a  sudden  rush  of 
custom  in  the  hair-  and  beard-trimming  line. 

Fortunately  I  had  brought  along  a  little  pink 
taffeta  thing  for  possible  occasions  of  dressing  up, 
and  when  I  appeared  in  it  at  supper  Joe's  eyes  said 
he  liked  it  and  Miss  Luppy  hesitated  between  con 
demnation  of  its  frivolousness  and  approval  that 
she  couldn't  help.  She  herself  was  wearing  curl 
papers  and  calico,  though  after  supper  she  would 
blossom  forth  gloriously  in  frizzes  and  her  best 
alpaca.  Miss  Luppy  had  had  this  garment  con 
structed  some  ten  years  before  by  the  best  talent  in 
Golconda  and  believed  in  it  profoundly.  Panoplied 
in  the  alpaca  she  would  have  obeyed  a  summons  to 
the  White  House,  confident  of  reflecting  credit  on 
Bandy's  Flat. 

By  this  time,  such  is  the  intoxication  of  dressing 
up  in  one's  best  clothes,  I  was  as  excited  about  the 
dance  as  any  Flatter  of  them  all.  One  little  rift 
within  the  lute  there  was — Brett  Morgan  would  be 
there,  and  how  to  get  out  of  dancing  with  him  I 


98         FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

knew  not.  Joe  offered  me  an  apparently  simple 
solution  by  remarking,  "Don't  you  think  you'd  bet 
ter  dance  every  dance  with  me  and  turn  the  others 
down?  There'll  be  some  pretty  decided  roughnecks 
there,  you  know.  And  no  one  can  get  up  a  grouch 
if  you  treat  them  all  alike." 

But  I  knew  one  who  could  and  would,  one  to 
whom  this  program  would  be  the  best  reason  in  the 
world  for  translating  into  some  ugly  deed  the 
hatred  he  had  voiced  for  Joe.  It  was  odd  and  dis 
quieting  that  though  when  Brett  Morgan  receded 
into  the  background  for  a  while  I  became  incredu 
lous  of  his  real  will  or  power  for  evil,  as  soon  as  he 
loomed  into  prominence  again  my  dread  returned. 
Even  the  anticipation  of  meeting  him  to-night,  as  I 
knew  I  must,  revived  in  me  the  sense  of  his  terrible 
earnestness,  his  untamed  primitive  force.  Never 
theless,  even  the  shadow  his  presence  cast  upon  the 
evening  didn't  blunt  my  eagerness  for  it  as  we 
walked  down  the  road  to  the  opera-house,  from  the 
open  door  of  which  light  was  streaming,  along  with 
an  excited  and  exciting  hum  of  voices. 

As  is  customary  at  country  festivities,  many  en 
tire  families  were  in  attendance,  and  mothers  were 
frankly  nourishing  their  offspring  on  the  benches 
along  the  wall.  As  there  wasn't  a  single  baby  at 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT         99 

the  Flat,  the  presence  of  these  young  outlanders  in 
itself  gave  an  exotic  air  to  the  occasion.  Old  Sam 
Davis,  the  still  older  Clay  Fairfax,  blue-grass  Ken- 
tuckian,  grim  and  stately  even  in  his  decay,  Mrs. 
Pettis,  and  other  relics  of  the  past  were  accorded 
honorable  prominence  in  chairs  set  near  the  door 
from  which  refreshments  would  later  issue.  On  the 
stage  musicians  imported  from  Golconda  were  tun 
ing  a  fiddle  and  trying  the  notes  of  the  cracked  old 
piano.  The  younger  women  of  the  Flat,  young  only, 
one  must  own,  by  contrast  with  the  venerableness 
of  their  elders,  were  there  in.  their  best,  bustling 
about  with  flushed  cheeks  and  excited  laughter.  A 
group  of  girls  from  Golconda  displayed  their 
superior  attractions,  to  the  decided  dimming  of  the 
home-grown  product.  And  there  were  men  of  all 
ages  and  in  all  varieties  of  garb,  short  of  conven 
tional  evening  dress. 

Young  Sam  Davis  acted  as  master  of  ceremonies. 
At  a  signal  that  the  musicians  were  ready  to  strike 
up,  he  took  his  stand  upon  the  stage  and  called  for 
silence. 

"Now  then,"  he  shouted,  when  the  general  atten 
tion  had  been  secured,  "walk  up,  gents,  walk  up  and 
pick  your  ladies.  It  won't  be  the  fault  of  the  com 
mittee  which  our  fellow  citizens  have  deputed  with 


ioo       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

the  honor  of  engineerin'  this  here  entertainment  if 
it  ain't  the  most  sky-hittin'  success  ever  known  at 
the  Flat.  There  ain't  no  expense  been  spared  in 
decoratin'  the  opera-house,  where  formerly  the 
brightest  stars  of  the  theayter  galaxy  has  shone,  nor 
in  engagin'  the  music,  which  I  may  say  that  Mexi 
can  Pete  and  his  pardner,  Al  Green,  is  known  to 
you  all.  You  ladies  and  gents  from  outside  what 
have  gave  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company,  the 
most  obligin'  thing  on  your  part  will  be  to  have  the 
darndest  good  time  ever.  As  to  my  fellow  citizens, 
I  needn't  tell  'em  what  their  duty  is  to-night.  It's 
to  behave,  each  and  all,  like  the  Flat  has  ever  been 
noted  for — not  to  let  no  lady  go  without  dancin' 
jest  because  she  ain't  so  young  as  she  uster  be,  nor 
hog  the  victuals  before  strangers  has  a  chance  at 
'em.  So  hustle  up,  gents,  don't  be  bashful.  The 
ladies  is  waitin',  I  see  'em  a-tiptoe  now.  Cut  loose, 
Pete  and  Al,  the  festivities  is  on." 

At  a  shriek  from  violin  and  piano  two  or  three 
girls  and  their  escorts  glided  out  upon  the  floor. 
Joe  and  I  followed  suit.  Sooa  the  space  was 
thronged  with  couples,  timing  all  manner  of  steps 
to  the  rag  which  beat  shrilly  on  the  air.  For  an 
instant,  among  a  group  of  men  who  were  not  yet 
dancing,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  dark,  somberly 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        101 

handsome  face.  The  eyes  were  following  me.  I 
turned  my  own  away  quickly.  When  next  I  saw 
Brett  Morgan  he  was  ragging  with  a  gaudy  young 
woman  from  outside  the  Flat.  With  a  thrill  of 
hope  I  saw  that  she  was  pretty,  and  that  she  was 
exerting  her  attractions  to  the  utmost.  Perhaps 
Brett  Morgan  would  prove  as  fickle  as  he  was  pre 
cipitate,  and  transfer  his  unwelcome  devotion,  at 
least  for  this  evening,  to  the  new  charmer.  This 
hope  increased  when  without  competitors  appearing 
Joe  claimed  the  second  dance  also.  But  as  the 
violin  tuned  up  for  the  third  time  I  saw  the  man 
whom  I  dreaded  approaching. 

Joe  saw  him  also  and  his  face  darkened. 

"Let  me  tell  him  you're  dancing  only  with  me, 
Sally,"  he  urged  in  a  low  voice. 

I  shook  my  head.  "It  won't  do,  Joe,"  I  whis 
pered  back. 

Then  Brett  Morgan  was  before  me. 

"Might  I  ask  for  this  dance,  Miss  Armsby?"  he 
said  with  something  of  his  mother's  ceremonious 
grace. 

I  did  not  reply,  for  my  heart  was  beating  too 
quickly,  but  took  an  acquiescent  step  toward 
him.  As  his  arm  went  round  me  a  queer  panic 
caught  my  breath,  but  it  was  too  late  now  for  re- 


102       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

treat  and  I  submitted  to  be  drawn  out  upon  the 
floor. 

Perhaps  this  too  was  part  of  his  Spanish  heritage, 
but  certainly  Brett  Morgan  danced  superlatively 
well.  His  whole  powerful  frame  seemed  to  become 
plastic,  to  flow  as  it  were  with  the  rhythm  of  the 
dance.  After  the  first  moment  of  fear  and  shrink 
ing  I  yielded  myself  up  to  a  kind  of  unwilling  enjoy 
ment.  We  had  made  the  round  of  the  hall  before 
he  spoke,  bending  down  so  that  the  murmur  stirred 
my  hair. 

"Sally!" 

"I'm  Miss  Armsby,  please,"  I  reminded  him,  with 
what  futility  I  knew  beforehand. 

"Not  to  me,  Sally.  I  told  you  already  how  it  was 
goin'  to  be.  I  came  through  with  Miss  Armsby  just 
now  all  right,  didn't  I  ?  You  don't  need  to  be  afraid 
of  me  doin'  nothin'  raw  in  public.  But  you're  Sally, 
Sally,  Sally  in  my  heart  always,  and  on  my  lips 
when  I  git  the  chance." 

In  spite  of  myself  I  looked  up  to  the  face  bend 
ing  down  to  mine.  It  was  very  close,  very  eager, 
and  I  felt  the  suddenly  tightening  clasp  of  the 
strong  swarthy  hand  that  held  my  own.  I  had  a 
terrified  impulse  to  escape,  to  struggle  for  my  some 
how  threatened  freedom.  But  the  music  seemed  to 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        103 

hold  me  spellbound,  to  whirl  me  on  helplessly  in 
his  embrace,  my  frightened  eyes  on  his. 

"Sally,  won't  you  give  me  a  chance,  jest  a 
chance?"  His  lips  were  very  close  beside  my  ear. 
"Oh,  if  you  knew — you  can't  know,  a  little  girl  like 
you — what  it  is  jest  to  hunger  and  thirst  and  ache 
for  somebody  the  way  I  do  for  you,  Sally !  It's  jest 
plain  torment  all  the  time,  like  there  was  a  fever  in 
me.  I've  wanted  some  things  bad  in  my  life,  bad 
enough  so  I  took  the  biggest  kind  of  chances  for 
'em.  But  I  ain't  ever  wanted  anything,  not  for  a 
minute,  like  I  want  you  all  the  time!" 

Whether  it  was  the  music's  throbbing  rhythm,  or 
the  sheer  vitality  and  power  of  the  man  in  whose 
arms  I  was  I  did  not  know,  but  a  glamour  seemed  to 
fall  upon  me  from  which  only  by  utmost  effort 
could  I  release  my  will. 

"You  must  stop,"  I  said  faintly.  "I  can't  listen, 
and  I  won't  dance  with  you  any  more — " 

As  I  spoke  the  music  ceased.  We  paused,  and  his 
arm  slowly  released  me.  But  with  his  hand  still 
clasping  mine  he  looked  down  upon  me  darkly. 

"You  won't  dance  with  me  no  more  ?  You  mean 
that?"  In  the  swift  transition  from  one  passion  to 
another  his  face  appeared  convulsed.  "You  mean 
that,  do  you?" 


104       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"I  mean  that  I  won't  dance  with  you  again  unless 
you  promise  not  to — talk  like  this."  With  the  end 
ing  of  the  dance  I  seemed  in  a  measure  to  have 
regained  my  self-possession,  but  prudence  warned 
me  to  temporize. 

He  hesitated. 

"Then  answer  me  one  thing/'  he  said  at  last, 
frowning  down  on  me  in  a  fierce  intensity  of  ques 
tioning.  "Are  you  and  Lambert  promised  to  each 
other?" 

The  blood  rushed  flaming  to  my  cheeks. 

"No!"  I  flung  at  him  savagely.  Yet  out  of  a 
baffling  mixture  of  emotions  emerged  a  clear-cut 
satisfaction  that  I  could  thus  deny  what  it  might 
have  been  so  dangerous  to  affirm.  In  Brett  Mor 
gan's  presence  my  vague  fears  no  longer  seemed 
fantastic,  but  the  shadow  of  a  real  if  still  unseen 
and  formless  peril. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Well,  don't  be,"  he 
said,  with  the  effect  less  of  a  threat  than  of  a  som 
ber  warning. 

And  then  Joe  appeared  and  with  a  formal,  "Our 
dance,  I  think,  Miss  Armsb^  ?"  took  me  from  him. 

At  the  conclusion  of  that  number,  while  I  was 
wondering  whether  I  dared  dance  the  next  with  Joe, 
I  looked  up  suddenly  to  behold  the  spectacle  of 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       105 

Young  Sam  Davis  coming  toward  us,  accompanied 
by  his  son  Sam  the  Third.  Very  obviously  Little 
Sam  was  under  duress,  and  he  struggled  feebly  in 
his  father's  grasp,  resisting  as  best  he  might  the 
mixture  of  force  and  persuasion  employed  by  his 
parent. 

All  in  vain.  The  stalwart  arm  of  Young  Sam 
conveyed  his  alarmed  offspring  to  the  spot  where 
we  stood.  Here  he  halted,  wiping  his  forehead,  for 
the  night  was  warm  and  his  exertions  had  been 
severe. 

"Miss  Sally,"  he  said  firmly,  "this  here's  my  son 
Sam.  He's  awful  pleased  to  know  you,  and  if  it 
'pears  like  to  the  contrary  don't  take  no  stock  in  it 
'cause  it  ain't  so.  He  wants  to  know  you  and  he 
wants  to  dance  with  you — don't  you  go  for  to  deny 
it,  Sammy! — and  so  I've  took  the  opportunity  to 
make  you  acquainted.  Now,  Sammy  boy,  buck  up 
and  don't  act  like  you  never  had  no  raisin'.  Here's 
the  lady  all  ready  and  waitin' — 'tain't  no  ways  pos 
sible  for  you  to  back  out." 

Possible  or  not,  Little  Sam  would  certainly  have 
backed  out,  to  the  extent  of  instant  flight,  if  his 
father  had  given  him  the  least  chance.  But  the 
large  hand  of  Young  Sam  kept  a  firm  clutch  on  the 
unhappy  youth.  Little  Sam  writhed  to  a  degree 


io6       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

which  made  his  members  appear  to  have  no  relation 
to  each  other.  If  he  had  actually  come  apart  at  the 
joints  and  slumped  down  in  a  fragmentary  state 
you  would  hardly  have  been  surprised.  His  gaze 
rolled  distractedly  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  his 
mouth  was  pulled  down  at  the  corners  with  a  sug 
gestion  of  impending  tears.  But  under  parental 
pressure,  both  moral  and  physical — Young  Sam's 
hand  was  contracting  like  a  vise — he  at  length 
achieved  speech. 

"If  you  want  to  dance  I'm  willm',"  he  muttered, 
and  then,  as  if  emboldened  by  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice,  or  perhaps  by  having  thus  fatally  committed 
himself,  he  beamed  out  in  a  sudden  coy,  ecstatic 
grin. 

"Thanks,  I'll  be  delighted,"  I  said  demurely,  all 
at  once  perceiving  the  strategic  value  of  this  move. 
Besides,  Young  Sam  deserved  it.  As  the  music 
struck  up  I  placed  my  hand  in  Little  Sam's — it  was 
moist  and  clammy  cold — and  he  contrived  by  a  con 
vulsive  effort  to  get  an  arm  about  my  waist.  With 
a  fine  independence  of  the  music  in  our  motions  we 
plunged  into  the  throng.  Our  first  rush  carried  us 
well  into  the  center  of  the  floor,  where  for  a  few 
moments  we  gyrated  helplessly.  The  flounderings 
of  Little  Sam  seemed  so  entirely  aimless  that  I 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        107 

inaugurated  a  forward  movement  on  my  own  ac 
count,  at  which  he  took  alarm  and  dashed  off, 
carrying  me  with  him,  in  a  wholly  new  direction. 
Relentlessly  we  plowed  through  the  stream  of 
dancers,  overturning  one  couple  and  scattering 
others  before  our  advance.  There  was  no  question 
of  our  keeping  step — Little  Sam's  feet  couldn't  even 
agree  between  themselves.  I  was  entirely  occupied 
in  avoiding  their  impact,  as  they  descended  with  the 
force  of  pile-drivers  in  unforeseen  spots.  Still  we 
hurtled  onward,  people  scuttling  from  our  path. 
Little  Sam  had  forgotten  his  fears ;  bliss  shone  in 
his  countenance,  in  his  gaze  riveted  to  some  point 
in  the  ceiling.  The  ecstasy  of  the  dance  possessed 
him.  His  encircling  arm  held  me  in  a  firm  clutch. 

All  things  come  to  an  end  at  last,  and  I  retreated 
to  a  vacant  chair  beside  Miss  Luppy,  who  had 
emerged  from  the  refreshment  room  to  look  on 
and  been  seized  by  Joe  and  made  to  join  the  dance. 
She  had  just  sunk  down  panting,  with  disarranged 
frizzes  and  an  apologetic  smile,  when  I  came  up, 
having  with  difficulty  detached  myself  from  Little 
Sam,  who  as  his  father  had  prophesied  turned  out  a 
good  sticker.  I  was  limping  a  little,  for  my  toes 
had  been  severely  stepped  on.  But  my  best  hope 
had  been  fulfilled,  for  we  had  not  actually  meas- 


io8       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

ured  our  length  on  the  floor.  To  be  pursued  by  the 
curses  of  those  to  whom  we  had  dealt  out  that  fate 
seemed  comparatively  a  light  matter. 

I  danced  twice  more  with  Joe  and  once  with  Brett 
Morgan,  who  did  not  resume  his  love-making,  at 
least  in  words.  Then  Young  Sam  leaped  upon  the 
stage  and  held  up  his  hand. 

"Ladies  and  gents,"  he  announced,  "we've  had  a 
lot  o'  dancin'  to-night  that's  to  the  likin'  of  the 
young  folks,  which  is  only  fair  seein'  how  fur  some 
of  'em  has  come.  Pete  and  Al  has  sweated  away 
here  givin'  you  all  the  new  tunes,  which  is  mostly 
the  kind  it  takes  a  lot  o'  elbow-grease  to  play.  Now 
we're  goin'  to  have  a  dance  which  some  as  is  gittin' 
a  trifle  stiff-j'inted  will  welcome.  Ladies  and  gents, 
pick  pardners  for  a  quadrille!" 

Loud  applause  greeted  this  speech,  and  before  it 
subsided  I  found  myself  claimed  for  the  set  by  that 
sardonic  widower,  Asa  Cobb. 

"None  o'  them  grasshopper  goin's-on  for  me," 
he  declared,  as  we  took  our  places  opposite  Miss 
Luppy  and  Joe.  "This  here  caperin'  and  cavortin' 
what  folks  calls  dancin'  nowadays  ain't  no  more'n 
fit  for  them  whirlin'-dervish-harem-scarums  what 
you  read  about  in  foreign  lands — the  Head  Turk's 
wives,  I  believe  they  is,  if  you'll  excuse  me  men- 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        109 

tionin'  it.  But  a  real  steady,  sensible  dance  like  this 
ain't  a  thing  you  have  to  limber  up  after  next  day." 

All  the  Flat  that  had  the  use  of  its  limbs  was  on 
the  floor.  Young  Sam  Davis  called  the  figures, 
which  were  many  and  remarkable.  In  the  heat  of 
his  excitement,  as  the  dance  progressed,  he  had 
flung  off  his  coat,  and  stood  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
beating  his  palms  together,  while  the  moisture 
streamed  from  his  brow.  Violin  and  piano  worked 
with  desperate  energy.  The  little  building  seemed 
to  rock  with  the  thud  of  dancing  feet. 

"Ladies  bow,  gents  know  how!"  came  the 
caller's  chant.  "Lift  your  feet,  swing  first  one  you 
meet!"  Then  presently,  "Chase  the  squirrel!"  he 
commanded,  and  the  women  began  a  serpentine  at 
furious  speed  in  and  out  under  the  chain  formed  by 
the  men,  who  afterward  chased  the  squirrel  in  their 
turn.  "Allyman  right,  Allyman  left!  Now  hands 
across,  swing  pardners,  o'  course!  Ladies  chain, 
grab  pardners  again!"  With  shout  and  gesture 
Young  Sam  urged  on  the  dance. 

Kit  had  remained  persistently  a  wall  flower 
throughout  the  evening,  refusing  all  solicitations  to 
dance  with  me  and  turning  an  indignant  back  on  the 
suggestion  that  he  offer  himself  to  Miss  Luppy  as  a 
partner.  When  I  expressed  a  fear  that  he  was  not 


i  io       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

enjoying  himself  he  replied  with  tranquillity  that 
the  eats  were  coming  soon — he  had  smelled  the  cof 
fee  heating  in  the  little  room  back  of  the  stage.  So 
I  left  him  without  further  uneasiness  to  the  bliss  of 
prospective  gormandizing. 

During  a  pause  in  my  exertions  in  the  quadrille  I 
glanced  across  to  the  bench  where  he  was  sitting, 
watching  the  performances  of  his  elders  with  a 
superior  and  aloof  expression.  But  on  the  instant 
this  expression  changed,  became  startled,  alert, 
intent,  and  he  sat  up  suddenly,  staring  with  wide 
eyes  at  something  behind  me.  I  turned  quickly. 
Directly  in  the  rear  was  an  open  window,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  detected  a  face  in  the  act  of 
withdrawing  from  it.  But  if  so  it  melted  into  the 
shadow  so  swiftly  that  to  identify  it  was  impossible. 
I  looked  again  at  Kit.  He  was  on  his  feet  and  edg 
ing  round  the  room  toward  the  door.  He  reached 
it  and  disappeared  into  the  night. 

This  was  mysterious,  especially  in  view  of  his 
interest  in  the  eatables  and  the  announcement  of 
Mr.  Davis  before  the  dance  began  that  they  would 
be  served  at  its  conclusion.  But  I  trusted  in  the 
supper  as  a  magnet  to  bring  him  back  before  very 
long,  and  my  faith  was  justified.  The  sandwiches, 
cake  and  coffee  were  beginning  to  circulate  when  I 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       1 1 1 

observed  my  young  brother  back  on  his  bench  with 
a  plate  heaped  with  slices  of  layer  cake,  variously 
filled  and  iced.  Before  I  could  go  over  to  him  to 
inquire  what  had  taken  him  so  suddenly  from  the 
hall  Miss  Luppy  called  me. 

"Sally,  would  you  as  soon  hand  these  sandwiches 
round?  Loreny  Pettis  has  gone  and  slipped  off 
somewheres,  and  I  was  lookin'  to  her  as  my  right- 
hand  bower.  I  can't  think  what  would  make  her 
quit  right  now  when  she's  most  needed.  Anyway, 
the  folks  can't  wait  to  eat  till  I  find  out,  so  I  expect 
we'll  have  to  git  on  somehow." 

Supper  ended,  Miss  Luppy,  who  had  borne  the 
heat  and  burden  of  the  evening  so  far  as  the  refresh 
ments  were  concerned,  announced  that  she  was  beat 
out  and  ready  to  go  home.  I  proposed  with  alacrity 
to  accompany  her,  as  an  escape  from  the  further  at 
tentions  of  either  Brett  Morgan  or  Little  Sam,  the 
latter  of  whom  was  hovering  near,  evidently  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  daring  exploit  of  asking  for  an 
other  dance.  And  Miss  Luppy  and  Kit  and  Joe  and 
I  slipped  unostentatiously  away,  leaving  the  sound 
of  revelry  by  night  still  rising  to  the  gleaming 
mountain  stars. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NEXT  morning  Kit  and  I  rode  back  to  the  dam 
with  Joe.  A  trail  nearly  paralleling  the  flume 
climbed  the  ridge  to  the  point  where  the  flume 
swung  across  into  the  canon  of  the  Grizzly,  then 
turned  east  along  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  dropping 
finally  to  the  plateau  above  the  dam  where  Joe  had 
made  his  camp.  The  dam  had  been  thrown  across  a 
narrow  gorge  into  which  the  valley  had  now  con 
tracted,  at  the  foot  of  some  swift  cascades  where 
the  water  came  tumbling  down  with  foam  and  up 
roar.  By  a  path  cut  steeply  in  the  precipitous  wall 
of  the  caiion  we  descended  to  the  dam,  where  a 
number  of  men  and  a  hoisting  apparatus  impelled 
by  a  noisy  little  donkey-engine  were  at  work.  Here 
was  the  beginning  of  our  old  friend,  or  enemy,  the 
flume.  Still  farther  down  flowed  shallowly  the 
shrunken  Grizzly,  whose  deflected  waters  went 
hurtling  through  the  flume  instead  of  foaming 
among  the  boulders  of  its  ancient  bed.  We  looked 
about  us  and  admired,  I  ignorantly,  Kit  with  an  air 

112 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        113 

of  profound,  not  to  say  critical,  understanding.  In 
my  heart  I  smothered  a  regret  for  the  unspoiled 
savage  beauty  of  the  canon,  as  it  must  have  been 
when  the  water  came  leaping  down  in  freedom  and 
no  donkey-engine  competed  with  its  thunderous 
music.  Nevertheless  I  admired  and  marveled  duly 
at  Joe's  dam,  whose  charms  he  pointed  out  with 
modest  pride,  to  the  accompaniment  of  sagacious 
nods  from  Kit. 

We  lunched  under  the  pines  overlooking  the 
canon  above  the  dam.  After  lunch  Kit  wandered 
away  to  interview  the  cook,  an  old-fashioned  China 
man  in  a  blue  blouse,  and  Joe  smoked  the  brier  wood 
pipe  and  we  talked  over  the  party. 

"Not  much  like  a  dance  in  town,  I  suspect,  eh?" 
said  Joe. 

"Not  exactly,"  I  admitted.  "But  then  of  course 
I  haven't  been  to  many.  Arabella  thought  me  too 
young — just  as  you  did  at  first,  you  know !" 

"But  I  didn't,"  he  declared.  "I  thought  you— I 
mustn't  tell  you,  though."  He  broke  off  suddenly 
and  thrust  the  pipe  again  between  his  lips. 

I  opened  my  mouth  to  ask  why  he  mustn't  tell  me, 
then  closed  it  again.  Of  course  if  he  didn't  want 
to— 

"I  suppose  I  mustn't  tell  you,  either,  just  how — 


ii4       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

well,  just  how  refreshing  to  the  eyes  you  were  last 
night,"  he  added  after  a  pause.  "You  couldn't  well 
have  helped  knowing  though,  Sally.  Take  the 
effect  on  Little  Sam,  for  instance!" 

"Do  you  mean  the  effect  on  his  dancing?"  I 
laughed. 

"Well,  I  hope  you  weren't  responsible  for  that!" 
he  grinned.  "Say,  that  other  fellow,  though,  that 
Morgan — some  dancer,  eh?"  He  turned  his  eyes 
on  me  in  a  steady,  observant  look,  noting  which  I 
was  guilty  of  an  ill-timed  blush. 

"He  dances  very  well,"  I  said  shortly. 

"You  remember  you  promised  to  tell  me  if  he 
bothered  you  at  all?"  The  blush  had  done  its 
work,  evidently. 

Now  I  had  promised  nothing  of  the  sort,  but 
instead  registered  a  silent  vow  to  exactly  the  con 
trary  effect. 

"I  don't  think  I  did,"  I  said  as  indifferently  as 
possible.  "Anyway,  there  has  been  nothing  to  tell." 

"All  the  same,  he's  in  love  with  you  and  you 
know  it,  Sally,"  he  informed  me  soberly. 

As  I  did  know  it  I  found  nothing  to  say. 

"One  doesn't  blame  the  fellow,  of  course,"  he 
went  on.  "It's  the  old  story  of  the  desire  of  the 
moth  for  the  star,  I  suppose.  You  looked  like  one 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       115 

last  night,  Sally— like  a  star  that  had  wandered  into 
the  kerosene  light  by  mistake  and  really  belonged  in 
a  highly  polished,  most  exclusive,  and  very  expen 
sive  firmament." 

I  laughed.  "Arabella  bought  that  taffeta  at  a 
bargain  sale,"  I  told  him.  "She  loves  bargains, 
but  won't  wear  them  herself,  so  she  buys  them  for 


me." 


"Well,  I  suspect  Arabella's  bargain  would  have 
made  a  pretty  big  dent  in  a  humble  pay-check,"  he 
said  lightly,  but  with  an  undercurrent  of  moodiness. 
"Perhaps  Morgan  and  Little  Sam  were  not  the  only 
moths  at  the  dance  last  night!" 

"Asa  Cobb  danced  with  me,  too,  you  may  have 
noticed,"  I  remarked,  then  flashed  a  laughing  look 
at  him  and  rose.  "Where  are  Kit  and  the  ponies? 
It's  high  time  we  were  starting  for  home." 

He  rose  too  and  stood  looking  at  me  uncertainly. 
What  words  were  on  his  lips  I  did  not  know,  but  I 
moved  away  before  they  could  be  spoken.  I  was 
taking  no  chances  on  renewing  the  topic  of  Brett 
Morgan. 

As  Kit  and  I  rode  down  the  ridge  trail,  after  say 
ing  good-by  to  Joe,  I  questioned  him  about  the 
puzzling  little  episode  of  the  night  before.  What 
had  he  seen  at  the  window  that  had  taken  him  out 


ii6       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

into  the  night  in  pursuit?  He  looked  rather  sulky 
and  discomfited  at  discovering  that  his  maneuver 
had  not  passed  unnoticed — it  was  a  reflection  on  the 
artistry  of  his  sleuth-work.  But  after  an  interval  of 
evasiveness  the  natural  human  desire  to  tell  a  secret 
overcame  him. 

"Well,  I  was  just  sort  of  looking  straight  ahead 
while  you  and  the  rest  were  dancing,  just  sort  of 
looking  straight  ahead  and  not  thinking  about  any 
thing  in  particular,  when  all  of  a  sudden  I  kind  of 
looked  a  little  ways  to  one  side  and  there  was 
somebody  standing  at  the  window  right  behind  you 
there.  Not  right  close  up,  you  know — kind  of 
keeping  back  in  the  shadow.  And  he  kind  of  made 
a  little  sign  as  if  to  somebody  inside — sort  of  like 
motioning  to  some  one.  And  then  before  I  could 
be  sure  he  dodged  back." 

"Before  you  could  be  sure  of  what?" 
"That  it  was  Eben  Gregg,  of  course !" 
"But  was  it  Eben  Gregg?"  I  asked,  rather  inter 
ested.    Because  if  Eben  Gregg  were  in  town  it  was 
certainly  odd  that  he  hadn't  appeared  at  the  dance. 

"Well,  maybe  it  was  and  maybe  it  wasn't,"  said 
Kit,  with  a  caution  which  left  no  room  for  error. 
"It  looked  like  him  sure  enough,  even  if  he  did  keep 
back  in  the  shadow  like  that.  But  when  I  sneaked 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       117 

out  to  spot  him,  so  I'd  be  able  to  swear  to  its  being 
him  in  case  it  came  up  in  court  or  anything,  he  was 
gone." 

"Wasn't  anybody  there?"  I  inquired.  I  knew  if 
Kit  had  found  some  one  else  outside  he  would  still 
be  loath  to  surrender  the  hypothesis  of  a  lurking 
Eben  Gregg. 

"Not  a  soul,  and  I  looked  everywhere.  First  I 
thought  of  beating  it  up  the  road  to  his  house,  to 
see  if  there  was  a  light  or  anything,  but  when  I'd 
gone  a  little  ways  I  remembered  supper  was  about 
ready  so  I  beat  it  back  again.  Only  person  I  met 
was  Lorena  Pettis  coming  up  street  from  the  opera- 
house.  I  said  'Hello/  and  she  said  she'd  forgot  her 
handkerchief  and  was  going  home  for  it  and  went 
on  in  a  hurry." 

This  made  me  a  little  thoughtful;  Lorena  Pettis, 
I  recalled,  was  supposed  to  be  still  patiently  waiting 
on  that  long-dallying  bachelor,  Eben  Gregg.  How 
ever,  their  private  affairs  were  none  of  mine,  and  it 
was  rather  pleasantly  romantic  that  if  Eben  Gregg 
had  indeed  returned  to  Bandy's  for  the  Fourth  he 
should  have  preferred  a  stolen  moment  with  his 
sweetheart  to  the  more  public  joys  of  the  dance. 

Kit  then  volunteered  the  information  that  he  had 
taken  time  this  morning  to  run  up  the  road  to 


ii8       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Gregg's  house,  and  found  no  signs  of  his  return — 
the  place  was  still  locked  up  and  deserted.  When  I 
asked  how  Eben  had  been  able  to  disappear  so  com 
pletely  without  arousing  comment  in  the  town  Kit 
reluctantly  admitted  that  he  was  generally  under 
stood  to  have  taken  a  temporary  job  at  a  sawmill 
over  on  the  South  Fork.  But  he  hastened  to  add 
that  no  one  could  speak  of  this  with  definiteness, 
and  that  though  the  town  was  satisfied  with  this 
explanation  he  was  not. 

"Then  what  do  you  think  he  is  doing  ?"  I  asked. 

But  at  this  Kit  withdrew  into  a  cloud  of  mystery 
which  I  recognized  without  difficulty  as  a  cloak  for 
ignorance. 

Instead  of  returning  to  Bandy's  by  the  ridge  trail 
we  decided,  having  the  afternoon  before  us,  to 
branch  off  into  another  path  which  crossed  the 
canon  of  the  Stony  and  would  bring  us  home  by 
way  of  Gantry's  Hill.  Kit  had  got  this  information 
from  Asa  Cobb  and  in  consequence  felt  in  duty 
bound  to  act  upon  it.  We  diverged  into  this  route, 
therefore,  and  pursued  our  way  leisurely,  now  under 
blazing  sunshine  past  dense-growing  buckthorn  and 
manzanita  which  reached  stiff,  gaunt  fingers  for  us 
from  beside  the  trail,  now  through  the  cool  of  deep 
woods.  The  trail  was  rough,  broken,  and  evidently 


'FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT     119 

seldom  used.  We  dropped  with  it  into  the  canon  of 
the  Stony,  then  wearily  climbed  out  again,  until  at 
last  we  stood  on  Gantry's  Hill,  some  two  or  three 
miles,  we  guessed,  beyond  the  cluster  of  deserted 
cabins  known  as  Little  York.  Here  for  a  while  we 
rested  in  the  shade,  watching  the  methods  of  a  pair 
of  blue  jay  parents  who  were  teaching  a  young  bird 
to  fly,  and  nudging  each  other  in  delight  as  a  fox 
stole  silently  through  the  bear-clover  a  stone's  throw 
away.  When  we  were  once  more  in  our  saddles 
and  headed  down  the  trail  for  home  Kit,  who  led 
the  way,  called  back  over  his  shoulder: 

"Say,  Sally,  there's  been  horses  along  here  lately." 

I  looked  down  and  saw  the  marks  of  hoofs  in  the 
light  dust.  The  trail  into  which  we  had  now  turned 
was  that  which  we  had  once  followed  as  far  as  Lit 
tle  York,  and  beyond  this  point  it  continued  on  into 
the  mountains.  All  along  its  course,  as  far  as  we 
could  see,  it  was  marked  confusedly  with  hoof- 
prints,  as  though  horses  had  lately  traveled  it  in 
both  directions. 

"Who  do  you  s'pose  has  been  along  here  ?"  asked 
Kit  with  a  profoundly  pondering  air. 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure.  It  isn't  up  to  us,  is  it, 
to  keep  tab  on  every  one  that  comes  and  goes  within 
miles  of  Bandy's  ?" 


120       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"But  there  isn't  any  reason  why  people  should 
travel  over  this  trail,"  he  persisted. 

"You  mean,  you  don't  know  of  any  reason,"  I 
corrected  him.  "Of  course  there  was  a  reason,  or 
they  wouldn't  have  done  it." 

"Well,  it  isn't  any  one  from  Bandy's,  anyway," 
he  declared,  "because  there  hasn't  any  one  been 
away  from  there  lately — except — "  Kit's  eyes, 
which  are  rather  like  green  buttons,  if  I  am  his  sis 
ter,  grew  round,  and  bulged  alarmingly.  "Except 
Eben  Gregg,"  he  concluded  in  a  portentous  whisper. 

"But  why  should  he  be  wandering  up  and  down 
this  trail?  And  he  doesn't  own  a  horse."  I  was 
rather  bored  by  Kit's  insistence  on  making  a  mys 
tery  of  the  tracks.  I  knew  by  experience  that  noth 
ing  makes  you  feel  sillier  than  to  seize  on  some 
promising  mystery  and  then  have  it  on  closer  inspec 
tion  turn  out,  as  it  always  does,  not  to  be  one. 

"How  do  you  know  what  he  owns?"  demanded 
Kit  darkly.  But  he  rode  on  as  one  convinced  of  the 
futility  of  argument.  Before  long  we  swung  round 
the  shoulder  of  Gantry's  Hill,  where  the  canon  of 
the  Stony  bends  sharply  to  the  north,  and  were 
looking  down  on  the  mine  and  on  Bandy's  on  the 
cliff  beyond  it.  In  the  usual  devious  fashion  of 
mountain  trails  we  continued  to  drop  toward  Little 
York. 


,    FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        121 

Just  above  the  group  of  cabins  we  paused  to 
drink  at  the  spring  which  bubbles  up  in  a  little 
pebbly  pool  beside  the  trail.  Hot,  sunshiny  silence 
brooded  over  the  mountain.  High  up  on  the  dead 
pine  sat  with  folded  wings  a  buzzard,  like  a  watch 
man  on  a  tower.  Out  of  the  brush  which  lay  be 
tween  us  and  the  cabins  popped  a  tawny  jack, 
caught  sight  of  us  and  popped  in  again.  And  the 
horse-tracks,  which  I  had  somehow  vaguely  fancied 
might  be  leading  to  Little  York,  went  on  steadily 
down  the  trail.  We  followed  them  to  the  river,  and 
saw  them  reappear  upon  the  other  side.  But  when 
we  had  climbed  from  the  river  canon  into  the  mine 
they  became  difficult  to  trace  on  the  white,  sun 
baked  earth,  hard  almost  with  the  hardness  of  the 
underlying  rocks.  We,  of  course,  followed  the 
roughly  marked  road  which  crossed  the  old  work 
ings  and  ascended  into  the  town  at  the  foot  of  the 
street,  and  after  a  little  I  became  certain  that  the 
tracks  had  diverged  from  it  somewhere,  though  at 
what  point  I  had  not  been  able  to  detect. 

It  was  after  all  unimportant ;  we  had  nothing  to  do 
with  these  horses,  or  they  with  us.  I  had  ceased  to 
think  of  them  before  we  reached  the  house.  But  after 
a  bath,  fresh  clothes  and  supper,  my  mind  reverted  to 
the  subject  of  Eben  Gregg.  Had  he  really  come  to 


122       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

the  window  of  the  hall  last  night  and  looked  in  on 
the  dance?  It  seemed  so  improbable  that  he  would 
have  done  so,  only  to  vanish  again  in  ghost-like 
fashion,  that  I  might  have  dismissed  the  idea  as  the 
product  of  Kit's  fertile  brain,  had  it  not  been  for 
his  encounter  with  Lorena  Pettis.  I  remembered 
that  she  had  disappeared  without  explanation  at  the 
very  moment  when  her  aid  was  needed.  If  she  had 
gone  for  her  handkerchief  she  must  have  had  diffi 
culty  in  finding  it,  for  I  was  sure  she  had  not 
returned  when  we  left  the  hall.  I  was  leaning  on 
the  gate  while  I  reflected  thus,  looking  up  the  road 
toward  Eben  Gregg's  house,  though  I  could  see 
only  the  top  of  the  tall  cottonwood  which  shaded 
his  front  yard.  At  last,  my  feet  following  half- 
consciously  the  direction  of  my  thoughts,  I  opened 
the  gate  and  went  out.  After  all  Kit's  inspection 
this  morning  had  probably  been  hasty — perhaps 
Gregg  simply  hadn't  got  up  yet.  I  would  stroll  up 
the  road  and  see  for  myself  whether  the  cottage 
still  showed  no  signs  of  habitation. 

As  I  came  in  view  of  the  house  behind  the  cotton- 
wood  I  saw  that  some  one  was  moving  about  the 
little  yard.  I  glimpsed  a  patch  of  blue  against  the 
weathered  gray  wall  of  the  house,  and  then  the 
figure  passed  out  of  sight.  I  walked  faster.  Eben 


,       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        123 

Gregg,  I  recalled,  used  to  wear  a  blue  shirt — I 
hoped  not  always  the  same  one,  though  from  ap 
pearances  it  might  well  have  been  so. 

But  when  I  got  to  the  gate  the  yard  appeared 
deserted.  I  stood  hesitating,  unable  to  think  of  any 
excuse  for  calling  out,  much  less  for  entering  the 
yard.  I  was  just  turning  away,  when  around  the 
corner  of  the  house  came,  not  Eben  Gregg,  but 
Lorena  Pettis.  She  had  a  small  pitcher  in  her  hand 
and  at  her  heels  was  trotting  the  little  gray  cat, 
licking  milky  jaws  and  mewing  anxiously,  her  eye 
upon  the  pitcher. 

At  sight  of  me  Lorena  paused  abruptly.  For  an 
instant  she  stood  poised  between  advance  and  re 
treat,  then  as  though  accepting  the  inevitable  came 
slowly  toward  me.  From  her  flushed,  confusedly 
smiling  face  I  knew  she  had  not  wished  me  to  find 
her  there. 

"Oh,  howdy-do,  Miss  Sally,"  she  said  with  an 
effort  at  cordiality.  "I  was  real  kind  o'  took  aback 
to  see  you — there  don't  no  one  come  out  this  way 
much.  It — it  jest  happened  I  was  passin',  you  see, 
and  kitty,  she  was  out  front  mewin',  and  thinks  I, 
that  'ere  cat's  hungry,  that's  what.  So  I  jest  slipped 
round  in  back  to  give  her  a  little  drop." 

It  was  certainly  opportune  for  kitty  that  Lorena 


124       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

should  happen  to  be  passing  with  a  pitcher  holding 
just  the  right  amount  of  milk  for  a  hungry  little 
cat.  She  showed  her  appreciation  of  this  happy 
accident  by  purring  loudly  and  rubbing  herself 
against  Lorena's  blue  gingham  skirt. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  take  care  of  Mr. 
Gregg's  cat  while  he's  away,"  I  said,  sweeping  her 
subterfuge  aside  remorselessly.  "Or  perhaps  he 
asked  you  to  last  night?"  I  made  this  bold  stroke 
with  a  casual  and  unconscious  air. 

She  started,  and  if  her  round  red  face  did  not 
exactly  pale — an  almost  unthinkable  phenomenon — 
it  at  least  assumed  an  uneasy,  anxious  shade. 

"Oh,  M-miss  Sally!"  she  stammered.  "How'd 
you  find  out?" 

Concealing  my  triumph,  I  smiled  in  a  knowing 
and  superior  fashion. 

"Oh,  a  little  bird  told  me!"  I  laughed,  and 
paused,  waiting  for  her  to  give  me  a  lead. 

She  looked  profoundly  troubled.  "Then  I  ex 
pect  it's  all  over  the  place,"  she  mourned,  "and 
£ben,  he'll  hold  to  it  'twas  me  let  it  out.  And  I  as 
good  as  swore  on  the  book — oh,  Miss  Sally,  won't 
you  please  tell  me  where  you  heard  about  it?" 

"It  was  only  from  Kit,"  I  comforted  her.  "He 
thought  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  him,  but  wasn't 


'      FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       125 

sure.  And  I  am  sure  he  has  spoken  of  it  to  no  one 
but  rne."  Which  I  was,  for  except  for  making  me 
his  confidante — on  the  principle  of  a  safety-valve — • 
Kit  was  working  in  profound  secrecy  on  his  theory 
of  Eben  Gregg's  disappearance. 

"Of  course,  though,"  I  added,  "it's  easy  to  under 
stand  why  he  dropped  into  town  so  quietly  last 
night — of  course  he'd  want  to  see  you,  instead  of 
all  the  crowd  at  the  dance."  This  remark,  set 
exactly  in  the  key  of  local  badinage,  caused  Lorena's 
raddled  cheeks  to  bloom  more  fierily  than  ever. 
But  she  simpered  in  a  shy  pleased  fashion,  and 
melted  like  butter  in  the  sun. 

"Oh,  Miss  Sally,"  she  murmured,  "ain't  you  the 
worst?  Why,  whatever  got  you  to  thinkin'  there 
was  anythin' — between  me  and  Eben?"  She  made 
little  creases  in  her  skirt  with  her  fingers,  waiting 
eagerly  for  my  reply. 

"Oh,  those  things  are  bound  to  get  out!"  I  re 
turned  with  artful  ambiguity.  It  wasn't  at  all  what 
I  would  have  liked  to  say,  with  poor  Lorena  waiting 
there  so  hungrily.  But  I  couldn't,  absolutely,  pre 
tend  that  I  had  observed  the  worm  of  an  unspoken 
passion  feeding  on  Eben's  damask  cheek.  How 
ever,  I  looked  immensely  knowing,  and  it  seemed 
enough,  for  she  beamed  delightedly. 


126       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"If  you  ain't  the  worst!"  she  again  protested. 
"O'  course  it  warn't  but  natural  he  should  make  it 
a  p'int  to  see  me,  I  guess.  'You  feed  kitty  regular/ 
he  says,  'and  there  ain't  no  tellin'  but  what  when  I 
git  back—'  There,  I  didn't  go  for  to  let  it  out! 
But  o'  course  with  the  place  and  kitty  needin'  care 
it  ain't  but  natural  he  should  look  to  me.  I  mean  to 
water  every  night  and  git  the  yard  to  lookin'  like 
somethin'.  I  expect  he'll  be  real  pleased  when  he 
gits  back." 

"You  might  tell  him  about  it  when  you  write,"  I 
suggested  guilefully. 

She  shook  her  head  in  a  discouraged  way.  "I 
guess  I  won't  git  to  write  much/'  she  sighed. 
"Eben  did  tell  me  where  to  leave  a  letter  in  case 
I  wanted  one  took,  but  he  said  to  kind  of  hold  in  as 
long  as  I  could.  'That  there  party  ain't  so  awful 
easy-tempered/  he  says,  'and  he's  sore  now  over  me 
tellin'  you  what  I  have,  little  as  it  is/  he  says. 
'You  better  not  give  way  to  your  feelin's  much 
about  writin'  me/  he  says." 

"Oh,  but  why  not  just  send  your  letters  through 
the  post-office?"  I  asked  innocently. 

"Through  the  post-office?"  she  echoed.  "Why, 
there  couldn't  no  post-office — "  she  paused,  while 
into  her  mild  dull  eyes  a  faint  gleam  as  of  suspi- 


•      FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        127 

cion  crept.  "There,  I'm  a  great  one  to  run  on,  I 
am,"  she  said  in  a  changed  voice.  "I  jest  mean  that 
where  Eben's  stoppin'  is  pretty  out  o'  the  way, 
that's  all.  But  I'd  take  it  as  a  favor,  Miss  Sally,  if 
you  wouldn't  let  out  anything  I've  said,  Ebeii  bein' 
one  that  don't  like  folks  clackin'  about  his  business 
much,  and  like  to  blame  me  for  talkin'." 

I  assured  her  I  would  not  let  it  out,  and  the  smile 
returned  to  her  lips,  which  had  drooped  like  those 
of  a  scared  child.  I  let  her  go  down  the  road 
alone,  divining  that  she  would  be  glad  to  escape 
from  all  temptation  to  further  confidences.  What 
those  she  had  already  given  me  really  amounted  to 
wasn't  quite  clear.  Certainly  whatever  the  business 
which  had  taken  Eben  Gregg  from  town  it  was 
of  an  entirely  private  nature.  Also,  his  present 
abiding-place  was  at  some  point  far  from  post- 
offices.  But  it  was  not  so  very  far  from  Bandy's, 
else  he  could  hardly  have  dropped  in  for  his  brief 
call  last  night.  Incidentally,  some  other  person,  of 
not  too  tractable  a  disposition,  was  involved  in  the 
affair.  These  various  points  I  pondered  for  a  while, 
leaning  meditatively  on  the  gate  of  the  cemetery, 
looking  in  upon  the  graves  overgrown  with  tall 
brown  grass  and  creepers.  Kit's  instinct  had  been 
right  after  all  in  detecting  the  flavor  of  mystery  in 


128       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Mr.  Gregg's  disappearance.  Yet  the  mystery  was 
so  insoluble,  from  any  clue  I  had,  so  apparently 
unconnected  with  any  possible  interests  of  my  own, 
and,  after  all,  was  probably  so  trivial,  that  my  mind 
soon  drifted  off  to  other  things. 

The  warm,  grassy,  earthy  odors  that  rose  around 
me  were  deepening  as  the  evening  cool  increased,  and 
somehow  in  my  imagination  the  fragrance  of  a  brier- 
wood  pipe  had  begun  to  mingle  with  them,  when  the 
sudden  sharp  consciousness  of  another  presence 
brought  me  with  a  jerk  back  to  reality.  I  turned 
quickly,  the  ever-abiding  dread  of  an  encounter  with 
Brett  Morgan  sending  my  heart  into  my  throat.  But 
it  was  Brett  Morgan's  mother  who  stood  beside  me. 
She  had  a  thin  black  shawl  draped  Spanish  fashion 
over  her  gray  hair,  and  her  dark  eyes  regarded  me 
somberly  from  her  pale  gaunt  face. 

"Mrs.  Morgan — oh,  how  you  startled  me!"  I 
sighed  in  a  deep  breath  of  relief. 

"I'm  sorry  I  done  that,  Miss  Sally,"  she  replied 
in  her  soft  voice.  "Mebbe  I'd  ought  to  'a'  spoke. 
But  you  was  in  my  mind,  and  when  I  see  you  and 
stopped  I  forgot  you  wouldn't  be  thinkin'  of  me  or 
expectin'  to  find  me  by  you." 

"I  was  in  your  mind?"  I  murmured  interroga 
tively,  understanding  all  at  once  that  the  encounter 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        129 

was  not  accidental,  that  she  must  have  waylaid  me 
here  with  intention. 

She  nodded  a  grave  assent.  "Like  you  been 
pretty  often  lately,"  she  affirmed,  then  paused.  In 
the  increasing  evening  dimness  her  dark  eyes 
seemed  to  grow  cavernous  and  boding.  "Like  you 
been  more'n  ever  since  last  night,"  she  resumed. 
"Miss  Sally,  I  expect  you'll  think  what  I'm  goin'  to 
say  is  queer,  mebbe  you  won't  understand  it.  But 
last  night  I  see  enough  with  my  own  eyes  to  know 
I  ought  to  say  it.  You're  young,  child,  and  I  guess 
you  don't  know  much  yet  about  men,  anyway  such 
men  as  my  son  Brett.  Don't  think  I  mean  to  speak 
hard  of  my  boy — whatever  faults  he's  got  can  be 
laid  to  my  raisin'  of  him,  I  guess,  or  mebbe  to 
the  blood  he  gits  from  me.  His  father  was  shot — 
it's  twenty-six  years  ago  now — when  my  boy  was 
jest  a  baby  in  my  arms,  and  I  had  to  bring  him  up 
the  best  I  could  alone.  And  he  wasn't  no  boy  for 
a  woman's  hand  to  manage.  I  ain't  complainin'  of 
nothin' — he's  a  good  boy  to  me  always.  But  when 
I  see  him  a-lookin'  at  you  last  night,  a-watchin'  you 
and  followin'  you  everywhere  with  his  eyes,  I  says 
to  myself  I  got  to  warn  you.  I  know  you  won't 
ever  care  for  him;  only  trouble  would  come  of  it  if 
you  did — we  ain't  your  kind.  So  I'm  tellin'  you, 


130       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

child,  to  be  careful,  not  play  with  him  or  lead  him 
on,  the  way  you  might  do  and  mean  no  harm,  girls 
bein'  what  they  are.  Don't  think  of  him  like  he  was 
the  kind  o'  man  you've  known — he  ain't.  He 
ain't  no  tamer,  inside,  than  a  panther  up  in  the 
mountains  yonder,  and  he's  a  lot  more  dangerous, 
once  he's  made  ugly,  than  a  dozen  of  'em.  What 
he  wants,  he  wants  bad,  and  I  guess  he  wants  you, 
right  now,  more'n  ever  he  wanted  anything.  Miss 
Sally,  don't  you  take  no  chances ;  keep  clear  of  my 
boy  Brett." 

She  looked  like  a  sibyl  as  she  spoke  her  warning, 
regarding  me  solemnly  from  beneath  the  dark 
drapery  of  her  shawl.  That  the  words  cost  her  pain 
and  effort,  I  saw.  Only  the  deep  sense  of  necessity 
could  impel  her  to  utter  them.  The  realization  of 
this  came  to  me  with  a  sudden  faint  shock  of  fear. 

"But,  Mrs.  Morgan,"  I  defended  myself,  rally 
ing.  "I've  done  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  en 
courage  him.  Because  I  understood  that — that 
something  like  what  you  speak  of  was  so,  I  have 
avoided  him  all  I  could.  It  isn't  my  fault  if — "  I 
broke  off  helplessly. 

"Not  your  fault,  child,  no,"  she  agreed  sadly. 
"I  ain't  blamin'  you — I  think  you  been  doin'  the 
best  you  knew.  Only — but  there,  you're  too  much 


,  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        131 

a  child,  I  guess,  to  understand.  You  don't  know 
how  a  man  like  him  can  be  drove  beyond  his 
senses—  Well,  I  ain't  any  more  to  say,  only  don't 
you  forget  what  I  did  say,  and  don't  you  take  no 
chances." 

We  walked  back  through  the  twilight  together 
without  further  speech,  but  at  Miss  Luppy's  gate  I 
paused  and  took  the  dark  sad  woman's  hand. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me,  Mrs.  Morgan,"  I 
said  earnestly. 

She  shook  her  head  gloomily.  "I  jest  done  what 
I  could  to  fend  off  trouble,"  she  replied,  and  slipped 
away  through  the  twilight,  a  dim  melancholy  fig 
ure  in  her  black  shawl. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ONE  morning  a  few  days  later  Kit  and  I  were  in 
the  garden.  I  had  been  cutting  roses,  but  was 
now  sitting  idly  on  the  seat  under  the  honeysuckle. 
Kit  was  hovering  near,  throwing  gravel  into  the 
fountain  at  the  pair  of  goldfish  that  resided  there. 

"Say!"  he  hailed  me  suddenly,  interrupting  what 
I  can't  call  a  train  of  thought  on  my  part,  for  it 
was  a  mere  vague  sense  of  well-being,  such  as  is 
probably  common  on  the  pollywog  level  of  existence. 

"Well?" 

"There's  a  strange  guy  in  town — blew  in  yes 
terday." 

"Well,  what  about  him?" 

"Well,  he  came  in  a  flivver,  and  drove  up  to  the 
Bonanza  House,  and  got  out  and  walked  in  and 
wanted  to  register,  just  like  it  was  a  real  hotel.  And 
Ben  Moody  that  runs  it — that  used  to,  I  mean, 
when  there  was  anything  to  run — pretty  near  fell 
dead,  and  all  he  could  do  was  to  holler  kind  of 
weak-like,  'Mariar!'  And  Mrs.  Moody,  she  came 

132 


•  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       133 

in  a  hurry,  and  when  she  saw  it  was  some  one  to 
stay  she  pretty  near  fell  dead,  but  she  had  the 
strength  not  to  say  anything  and  just  lug  out  the 
register  and  turn  over  a  fresh  page  for  the  man  to 
sign,  so  he  wouldn't  see  how  long  it  was  since  any 
one  had  signed  before.  And  the  name  he  signed 
was  Hackett — E.  Nestor  Hackett.  People  have  been 
going  in  there  pretty  steady  ever  since  to  look  at  it. 
Mr.  Cobb  says  so.  He  says  it  would  be  enough  to 
get  any  dry  squad  guys  that  was  around  here  hot 
on  Ben  Moody's  trail,  'cause  they'd  sure  think  he 
was  selling  booze  again,  to  get  the  boys  flocking  in 
like  that." 

"Did  Mr.  Cobb  tell  you  all  this?"  I  was  sure  I 
recognized  his  characteristic  style  throughout  the 
narrative. 

"He  didn't  exactly  tell  me,"  admitted  Kit  reluct 
antly.  "He  was  telling  Miss  Luppy,  and  I — I 
heard  him,  that's  all." 

"Kittredge  Armsby,  you  listened!" 

"Didn't  either!"  he  denied  hotly.  "He  was  tell 
ing  Miss  Luppy  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  I  was 
eating  bread  and  molasses  at  the  pantry  shelf,  where 
she  told  me  to  stay  for  fear  of  dripping,  and  I — I 
just  heard,  I  tell  you!" 

"Well,  go  on,"  I  sighed,  after  a  brief  but  losing 


134       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

struggle  with  my  principles.  "That  is,  if  there  is 
anything  to  tell." 

"Well,  this  guy  Hackett  he  asked  for  a  good 
room,  and  he  let  Ben  Moody  stick  him  on  the  price 
and  didn't  say  anything,  and  he  wanted  a  bath,  and 
could  he  have  something  else  than  pork  and  beans 
for  lunch  because  his  stomach  was  delicate.  And 
Ben  Moody  had  kind  of  come  to  by  that  time,  and 
he  didn't  look  astonished  about  the  bath  or  any 
thing,  but  said,  'Sure  thing,  pardnerf  like  he  was 
used  to  talking  to  millionaires  and  senators  every 
day,  Mr.  Cobb  said." 

"Does  this  Mr.  Hackett  seem  to  be  a  millionaire 
or  a  senator?"  I  inquired. 

"Not  on  your  life  he  don't,"  asserted  Kit  emphati 
cally.  "I've  seen  him  myself,  and  he's  a  kind  of 
country-looking  guy — not  like  the  folks  up  here,  but 
kind  of  country-looking  all  the  same.  Wears  a 
white  straw  hat  with  a  wide  brim  and  a  duster  and 
kind  of  fool  whiskers  and  spectacles.  You  wouldn't 
say,  to  look  at  him,  that  he  was  so  awful  bright." 

"Maybe  he's  not,"  I  indifferently  suggested. 
"But  did  Asa  Cobb  keep  Miss  Luppy  standing  at 
the  door  just  to  tell  her  about  a  strange  man  \vith 
whiskers  who  doesn't  look  bright?" 

"You  bet  he  did,  and  Miss  Luppy  never  edged  off 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        135 

the  way  she  does  when  she's  in  a  hurry,  either!" 
he  declared  indignantly.  "She  listened  like  any 
thing,  you  bet.  And  she  said,  'Didn't  this  Hackett 
give  Ben  any  notion  what  he  was  here  for?'  And 
Mr.  Cobb  said,  'Oh,  yes,  he  give  a  song-and-dance 
about  comin'  up  because  he  heard  there  was  fine 
fishin'  round  these  parts/  And  she  said,  'Well, 
mebbe  that's  all  there  is  to  it/  and  he  said,  'Mebbe, 
but  it  looks  kind  o'  fishy  to  me — not  intendin'  any 
joke/  he  said.  And  then  she  said,  'Well,  Asa,  I 
wouldn't  be  the  one  to  start  any  talk,  if  I  was  you, 
'cause  you  know  what's  likely  to  come  of  it/  And 
he  said,  'Oh,  I  ain't  aimin'  to  do  that,  o'  course,  but 
all  the  same  it  does  look  to  me  mighty  like  as  if  he 
was  a  slickens  man/ ' 

"As  if  he  was  what?"  Kit  had  lowered  his  voice 
mysteriously  at  the  last,  and  I  concluded,  not  unnat 
urally,  that  I  had  not  heard  aright. 

"Slickens  man!"  This  time  he  had  recourse  to 
an  indignant  shout,  as  if  I  had  grown  suddenly  and 
wilfully  deaf. 

"But  what  is  a  slickens  man?  What  does  the 
ridiculous  word  mean?" 

Kit  at  once  became  injured  and  morose,  by  which 
I  knew  he  was  no  wiser  than  myself.  Indeed,  I 
more  than  suspected  that  he  had  led  carefully  up  to 


136       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

this  point  in  the  hope  that  I  might  enlighten  him, 
incidentally,  as  to  the  import  of  this  cabalistic  term, 
without  his  being  obliged  to  confess  his  ignorance. 

"Slickens  man— why,  as  if  anybody  wouldn't 
know  that  right  off!  Why,  a  slickens  man  is— 
why,  anybody' d  know  what  he  is !" 

"But  I  don't  know,"  I  admitted  shamelessly. 
"Why  don't  you  tell  me?" 

But  Kit  had  begun  a  shrill  whistling  which  I 
knew  meant  finis,  like  the  orchestra  playing  Home, 
Sweet  Home. 

Being  without  Kit's  aversion  to  owning  myself 
possessed  of  something  less  than  omniscience,  I 
sought  enlightenment  later  in  the  morning  of  Miss 
Luppy. 

"Miss  Luppy,"  I  inquired,  "what  is  a  slickens 
man?" 

At  this  Miss  Luppy,  who  was  stirring  fruit  in  a 
large  kettle  on  the  stove,  turned  rather  suddenly. 

"What's  that?"  she  asked  sharply. 

I  repeated  my  question.  Lavinia  stood  with  her 
spoon  poised  in  the  air,  while  the  juice  dripped 
down  and  sizzled  on  the  immaculate  stove.  Across 
the  width  of  the  kitchen  I  felt  her  look  bore  into  me 
like  an  auger.  If  ever  I  have  a  guilty  secret  I  shall 
keep  well  out  of  range  of  Lavinia  Luppy's  eye. 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        13? 

But  being  without  a  guilty  secret  at  that  moment 
I  was  able  to  sustain  this  penetrating  gaze  with  no 
other  emotion  than  surprise.  This  was  increased  by 
the  solemnity  of  the  tone  in  which  she  demanded : 

"Sally  Armsby,  who's  been  a-tellin'  you  of  such  a 
thing?" 

"Only  Kit,  and  he  knows  no  more  than  I  do  what 
it  means.  But  he  heard  Asa  Cobb  say  that  the 
stranger  who  is  at  the  Bonanza  House  was  perhaps 
a  slickens  man," 

"It's  a  true  sayin'  about  little  pitchers  bavin'  big 
ears!"  she  exclaimed  crossly.  "If  there  was  another 
about  widder  men  havin'  long  tongues  it  would  be 
a  good  snug  fit  for  Asa  Cobb,  too.  As  to  callin' 
decent-lookin'  visitors  slickens  men  jest  because 
they  ain't  accounted  for  their  business  to  suit  cer 
tain  parties  that  ain't  got  much  o'  their  own,  I  don't 
holt  with  any  such  thing.  Live  and  let  live  is  my 
motter,  till  you  know  the  ground  you  stand  on." 

"Yes,  but  what  is  a  slickens  man,  Miss  Luppy?" 
I  persisted,  not  much  enlightened  by  this  discourse. 
"Do  tell  me,  even  if  Kit  is  not  to  know.  I'm 
eighteen,  remember." 

"You  may  be  eighteen  or  you  may  be  eighty, 
without  bein'  the  right  age  for  askin'  questions 
about  what  don't  concern  you,"  said  Miss  Luppy 


138       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

emphatically.  "I  ain't  a  Flatter  born  or  raised,  and 
I  don't  holt  with  a  good  deal  that's  gone  on  under 
my  eye  since  I  come  out  to  care  for  old  Cousin 
Eliza  more'n  twenty  years  ago.  But  spy  on  my 
neighbors  I  will  not."  She  returned  to  her  stirring 
with  an  air  that  proclaimed  the  conversation  at  an 
end. 

Discouraged  by  the  severity  of  this  snub  I  did 
not  pursue  the  conversation  further.  I  must  simply 
add  the  mystery  of  the  slickens  man  to  the  mystery 
of  Eben  Gregg  and  that  other,  greater,  mystery  of 
the  light  in  the  old  saloon.  If  I  chose,  I  might 
lengthen  the  catalogue  by  the  cigarette  we  had 
found  at  Little  York  that  day,  and  the  hoof-prints 
we  had  followed  down  the  trail  into  the  depths  of 
the  old  mine.  In  so  far  as  I  could  perceive,  or  even 
conjecture,  there  was  no  relation  between  any  of 
these  things.  Probably,  my  common  sense  told  me, 
there  was  a  simple  solution  for  every  one  of  them. 
How  could  Bandy's,  so  small,  so  dull,  so  altogether 
of  the  past,  supply  material  for  a  mystery,  much 
less  for  several?  Nevertheless,  trivial  and  appar 
ently  unrelated  as  they  were,  there  was  an  element 
of  the  obscure  and  inexplicable  running  through 
these  various  incidents  which  seemed  somehow  to 
thread  them  on  one  string.  Pondering  thus,  I  left 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       139 

the  garden  and  crossed  the  road  to  the  grassy 
stretch  between  it  and  the  brink  of  the  old  mine. 
Farther  down  the  side  wall  of  the  old  saloon  blocked 
the  view,  the  little  round  window  high  up  in  the 
wall  through  which  I  had  seen  the  light  presenting 
now  a  surface  of  dull  opacity. 

About  mid-way  between  Miss  Luppy's  house  and 
the  saloon  a  steep  footpath  led  down  the  cliff  into 
the  mine.  With  no  very  definite  aim  in  mind, 
except  perhaps  that  of  picking  up  and  following  to 
their  destination  the  horse-tracks  we  had  lost  the 
other  day,  I  'descended  the  path.  It  had  been  trod 
den  lately,  I  perceived,  a  good  deal  trodden.  I  won 
dered  why,  for  it  was  steep  and  narrow  and  for 
most  of  the  village  less  convenient  for  getting  into 
the  mine,  in  case  any  one  had  occasion  to  go  there, 
than  the  road  at  the  foot  of  the  street.  Suddenly  I 
paused.  Lying  in  the  path  at  my  feet  was  a  half- 
burned  cigarette.  Inevitably  and  instantly,  it  re 
called  that  other  half-burned  cigarette  in  the  path  at 
Little  York.  For  a  moment  the  inference  seemed 
plain — that  unknown  visitor  to  Little  York  had  left 
these  footprints  in  the  dust.  Then  came  the  dis 
couraging  reflection  that  right  here  in  Bandy's 
were  half  a  dozen  smokers  of  cigarettes.  Brett 
Morgan  was  one,  Ben  Moody  was  another,  lame 


140       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Wade  Barrett  who  repaired  the  town's  clocks  and 
watches  was  a  third.  No,  the  half-burned  cigarette 
proved  nothing. 

Leaving  the  stub  lying  in  the  dust  I  went  on.  The 
distance  to  the  bottom  of  the  cliff  was  not  great, 
perhaps  some  seventy  feet,  though  the  mine  sank 
away  to  greater  depths  in  many  places.  No  sooner 
had  I  reached  the  bottom  of  the  path  than  for  a 
second  time  I  came  to  an  abrupt  halt.  For  here,  in 
the  bleached  white  soil,  the  marks  of  hoofs  were 
plain.  Horses  had  stood  here,  pawing  and  stamp 
ing  as  the  way  is  with  tethered  animals.  They  had 
been  tethered  to  this  little  manzanita  shrub  which 
had  found  lodgment  somehow  in  a  low  shelf  of  the 
cliff — I  saw  where  the  ropes  had  rubbed  the  bark. 
This,  then,  had  been  the  end  of  the  trail  for  the 
horses  whose  tracks  we  had  followed  down  Gantry's 
Hill  and  across  the  river. 

But  why?  Vainly  I  asked  this  question  as  I 
stared  up  at  the  face  of  the  cliff.  The  slope  of  the 
path  had  brought  me  to  a  point  almost  directly 
beneath  the  old  saloon.  I  knew,  because  a  huge  old 
sycamore  which  grew  beside  it  hung  out  a  little 
way  over  the  cliff.  On  what  possible  errand  had 
horsemen  come  here?  Although  the  top  of  the 
path  was  in  full  sight  from  the  garden  where  I 


•      FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       141 

spent  so  many  hours  I  had  seen  no  one  go  up  or 
down;  neither,  in  the  little  community  where  the 
smallest  incident,  in  the  absence  of  large,  was  mat 
ter  for  so  much  gossip  and  discussion,  had  I  heard 
of  anything  to  account  for  the  presence  of  horses 
here.  Certainly  nothing  in  the  routine  business  of 
the  little  place  accounted  for  it.  Was  something, 
an  unguessable  something,  afoot  which  the  town 
knew  nothing  of?  Or  did  the  town  know,  and 
were  Kit  and  I  alone  in  ignorance?  In  either  case 
what,  on  any  possible  hypothesis,  could  the  busi 
ness  be?  With  my  eyes  on  the  ground  I  followed 
the  tracks  some  distance  from  the  cliff.  Unques 
tionably  they  led  to  the  river,  though  on  the  ridgy, 
hard  white  earth  they  soon  became  blurred  and  dif 
ficult  to  trace.  But  it  was  the  same  trail,  of  course, 
that  Kit  and  I  had  followed  down  Gantry's  Hill. 

Slowly  I  returned  to  the  little  space  of  trodden 
ground  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  where  I  stood  star 
ing  up  at  the  overhanging  boughs  of  the  tree  that 
marked  the  position  of  the  old  saloon.  Without 
connection  that  I  could  perceive  or  induce  my  imagi 
nation  to  supply,  the  light  I  had  seen  there  in  the 
small  hours  of  that  black  thunderous  night  linked 
itself  persistently  with  these  tracks  in  the  mine  be 
low.  What  was  the  thread  which  bound  them 


142       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

togetKer  ?  Was  there  such  a  thread  at  all,  wasn't  it 
rather  a  pure  instinct  for  melodrama  on  my  part 
that  supplied  it?  Or  if  there  were,  where  then  did 
Joe  come  in,  Joe  who  alone  had  had  access  to  the 
key  that  night?  I  was  pondering  this,  my  face 
upturned  to  the  cliff,  when  a  voice  spoke  at  my  ear. 

"Very  interesting,  I  expect,  but  why?" 

With  a  faint  shriek  I  turned.  A  man  was  stand 
ing  at  my  very  elbow,  engaged  as  I  had  been  in 
looking  up  at  the  top  of  the  cliff.  He  was  a  thin 
man  in  a  linen  duster  and  a  wide-brimmed  straw 
hat  with  a  black  band.  He  wore  large,  owlish-look 
ing  spectacles  with  metal  rims,  and  close-trimmed 
whiskers  of  a  sandy  brown.  Even  in  that  first 
startled  moment  it  flashed  into  my  mind  that  this 
was  that  new  arrival  in  the  town  of  whom  Kit  had 
spoken. 

At  the  exclamation  I  uttered  the  stranger  with 
drew  his  gaze  from  the  cliff  and  turned  it  on  me. 
It  seemed  a  mild,  even  a  deprecating  gaze,  as  it 
came  through  the  large  round  spectacles  set  far 
down  on  a  prominent  nose.  Removing  his  hat  he 
said  again,  in  a  voice  with  a  dry  crackle  to  it  like 
dead  leaves:  w 

"Very  interesting — but  why?" 

"Oh — no  reason  in  particular,"  I  stammered. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        143 

"But  you  seemed  so  kind  of  wrapped  up  in  it!" 
he  said  with  a  disappointed  air.  "I  thought  maybe 
it  was  something  geological — like  fossils,  or  re 
mains  of  the  Ice  Age  or  something — that  you  were 
studying  about.  Wasn't  it  anything  of  that  sort, 
now  ?"  He  asked  this  as  though  with  reviving  hope 
that  I  must,  after  all,  turn  out  to  be  the  earnest 
young  student  I  had  seemed. 

Under  that  mild  and  serious  gaze  I  appeared 
unable  either  to  withhold  a  reply  or  to  invent  one. 

"I — I  was  just  looking  at  that  tree  up  there,"  I 
mumbled  idiotically. 

"Ah!"  The  stranger  too  looked  at  the  tree  up 
there.  "I  see;  it  ain't  geology  after  all,  it's  botany 
you're  interested  in.  Particularly  trees.  But 
wouldn't  you  get  it  more  in  dee-tail  if  you  were 
closer?"  Once  more  he  turned  his  spectacles  upon 
me.  I  was  aware  that  I  looked  confused  and  con 
science-stricken,  as  one  does  when  surprised  in  a 
situation  one  doesn't  care  entirely  to  explain.  But 
that  mild  unseeing  gaze  obviously  didn't  take  it  in. 

"I'm  not  a  botanist,  either,"  I  found  myself  con 
fessing.  "I  was  just— just  getting  the  effect  from 
here,  that's  all." 

"Oh,  of  course — an  artist !"  He  spoke  with  con 
viction,  as  sure  now  that  he  had  got  me  classified. 


144       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Without  pausing  for  a  response  he  continued  flu 
ently:  "Well,  this  is  a  great  place  for  an  artist,  I 
expect.  I  came  up  myself  for  the  fishing — heard 
down  at  Golconda  it  was  first-class  around  here. 
Thought  I'd  treat  myself  to  a  little  vacation  this 
year,  on  account  of  doing  pretty  well  down  in  the 
valley  towns  where  my  beat  is — getting  subscrip 
tions  for  the  papers  I  handle,  you  know.  Wait  a 
minute — better  introduce  myself,  I  guess." 

He  produced  a  card  and  offered  it  to  me.  Neatly 
engraved  thereon  was  the  inscription: 

MR.  E.  NESTOR  HACKETT 
Representing 

The  Farmer's  Friend 
The  Poultry  World 
The  Rural  Review 

"I  expect  that  will  identify  me — sort  of  give  me 
a  local  habitation  and  a  name,  as  the  poet  says," 
remarked  E.  Nestor  Hackett.  "I  presume  when 
folks  are  vacationing  in  a  little  place  like  this  it 
ain't  necessary  to  be  too  formal.  But  of  course  if 
not  agreeable — " 

"Oh,  it's  quite  all  right,  Mr.  Hackett,"  I  ha 
stened  to  assure  him.  I  had  recovered  myself  by 
this  time,  and  was  in  a  state  to  appreciate  and  be 
grateful  for  the  duster,  the  spectacles,  the  whole 


'     FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        145 

delicious  incongruity  of  him.  What  would  he 
make  of  the  Flat  as  he  came  to  know  it?  What 
would  the  Flat  make  of  him?  Of  course  what  he 
represented  should  have  been  the  Sunday-School 
Banner,  or  some  such  publication.  Still,  The 
Farmer's  Friend  did  very  well. 

"And  this  is  Miss  Armsby,  if  I  ain't  mistaken," 
pursued  Mr.  Hackett.  "Oh,  yes,  I  heard  of  you 
from  Mr.  Davis  at  the  store — a  real  lively,  sociable 
party,  ain't  he?  Says  he,  the  storekeeper,  'Well, 
this  here  town  is  a-gittin'  to  be  a  reg'lar  ree-sort, 
ain't  it,  with  three  from  below  visitin'  here  to 
oncet  ?' '  Mr.  Hackett  uttered  a  dry  cackle  over 
this.  "Must  you  be  going  along?  Well,  I'm  real 
pleased  I  happened  by  this  way,  if  you  don't  mind 
me  saying  so —  Hello,  what's  the  matter?" 

The  matter  was  that  as  I  stood  facing  Mr. 
Hackett  I  had  chanced  to  glance  past  him,  and 
there,  arising  moonlike  over  the  edge  of  a  boulder, 
at  a  few  yards'  distance,  I  beheld  Kit's  face.  And 
the  surprise  had  betrayed  itself  in  my  startled 
countenance. 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  Mr.  Hackett  had 
wheeled  about1  instantly  in  the  direction  of  my 
stare.  But  Kit  was  quicker  still.  No  vestige  of  a 
living  boy  appeared  in  the  strange  dead  landscape. 


I46       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Mr.  Hackett  took  a  forward  step,  but  I  detained 
him  with  a  gesture. 

"Mr.  Hackett,  please!  It's  no  matter  at  all, 
really!  I  thought  something  moved,  but — oh, 
well,  Fm  always  imagining  things !" 

He  paused,  but  with  spectacles  still  trained  on  the 
spot  where  Kit  had  disappeared.  On  the  broken, 
seamed  white  earth  loose  boulders,  large  and  small, 
lay  about  confusedly.  Could  Kit  manage  to 
wriggle  off  somewhere  in  the  minute  of  grace  I  was 
giving  him?  I  knew  it  was  not  chance  that  had 
brought  him  here.  For  reasons  of  his  own — con 
nected  no  doubt  with  the  mystery  of  the  slickens 
man — he  was  stalking  E.  Nestor  Hackett.  And 
how  wrould  Mr.  Hackett,  mild  as  his  aspect  was, 
enjoy  the  discover}^  that  he  was  being  stalked? 

But  he  seemed  destined  not  to  make  the  discov 
ery,  for  the  alertness  of  his  attitude  relaxed,  and  he 
turned  to  me  with  his  dry  cackling  little  laugh. 

"Imagine  things,  do  you  ?  I  guess  you're  no  dif 
ferent  from  other  young  ladies,  that  way.  There 
was  a  girl  I  used  to  keep  company  with  some,  back 
in  loway,  and  she  could  imagine  snakes  easier'n 
anybody  ever  I  saw,  unless  a  D.  T.  patient.  What 
is  it  you're  partial  to  imagining,  now — bears?" 

"Oh,   no,  just — things   that   pop  up   where  you 


•  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        147 

'don't  expect  them  and — wiggle,"  I  replied  hastily, 
feeling  that  this  description  really  fitted  Kit  rather 
well.  "Of  course  it  may  not  have  been  imagina 
tion" — I  was  feebly  clinging  to  veracity — "perhaps 
something  did  wiggle.  There  may  be  some — rather 
queer  little  animals  about,  you  know."  Which  boys 
certainly  are,  whether  brothers  or  not. 

"That's  a  fact,"  he  assented.  "Squirrels,  for  in 
stance — saw  a  lot  of  'em  a  ways  back.  Well, 
there's  the  wonders  of  nature  all  around  us,  if  we 
have  an  eye  for  'em.  'I  love  not  man  the  less,  but 
nature  more/  as  the  poet  says.  Good  day,  Miss 
Armsby.  If  your  little  brother  likes  fishing,  he 
might  come  along  with  me  some  time.  I  expect  he 
could  qualify  as  guide  around  these  parts  by  now, 
if  he's  got  the  exploring  turn  of  boys  in  general." 

I  wondered  if  Kit  heard — as  from  near-by  bur 
row  well  he  might— and  if  he  felt  the  friendly  over 
ture  as  coals  of  fire  on  his  unworthy  head.  And  I 
parted  amicably  from  Mr.  Hackett  and  climbed 
slowly  up  the  little  path,  where  the  cigarette  stump 
still  lay  in  the  dust. 


CHAPTER  X 

KIT  didn't  appear  till  dinner,  but  afterward  I  cor 
nered  him  before  he  could  escape. 

"You  wretched  child,"  I  upbraided  him,  "what 
did  you  mean  by  behaving  so  this  morning?" 

He  looked  at  me  sulkily,  but  I  detected  a  gleam 
suspiciously  like  triumph  in  his  green  eyes. 

"Strikes  me  you  were  behaving  some  yourself!" 
he  countered.  "Taking  up  with  strangers  that  way 
and  all!" 

"Kittredge  Armsby!  And  me  keeping  you  from 
getting  caught  and  shaken  as  you  should  have  been, 
ungrateful  little  beast!  Now  'fess  right  up — what 
made  you  trail  the  man  that  way  and  hang  around 
and  listen?  Why,  he's  just  a  kind  of  farmer- 
traveling  man  up  here  on  a  vacation !" 

"He  is,  is  he?"  said  Kit  darkly.  "A  lot  you 
know  about  it!" 

I  offered  Mr.  Hacketfs  card,  which  he  inspected 
with  open  skepticism. 

"Huh!"  he  jeered.  "He  acts  queer  for  what  he 
says  he  is,  that's  all !" 

148 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       149 

"How,  queer?"  I  demanded. 

He  considered  me  dubiously.  He  was  itching,  I 
saw,  to  disclose  some  important  discovery,  greatly 
redounding  to  his  own  honor  and  glory  as  a  sleuth. 
I  don't  believe  he  unbosomed  himself  freely  to  Asa 
Cobb,  who  was  usually  much  more  anxious  to  talk 
than  to  listen,  and  was  besides  of  a  satiric  bent, 
inclined  to  belittle  information  or  opinions  not 
emanating  from  himself.  It  would  have  to  be  a 
complete  chain  of  evidence  one  offered  Asa  Cobb. 

Therefore  in  the  end  I  got  it  out  of  him,  as  I 
usually  do  get  things  out  of  Kit,  by  means  of  pa 
tience,  bribes,  and  feints  of  indifference  resorted  to 
at  precisely  the  right  moment.  Having  entered  into 
sole  and  undisputed  possession  of  my  last  box  of 
chocolates  from  the  city,  he  gloatingly  recounted  his 
adventures  of  that  morning,  which  he  had  devoted 
to  stalking  Mr.  Hackett.  For  a  while  the  new 
arrival  had  lingered  about  the  store  and  the  Bo 
nanza  House,  conversing  affably  with  whomsoever 
seemed  inclined  to  conversation,  and  enviably 
obtuse  to  the  hard  silences,  the  gruff  withdrawals, 
of  most  of  those  to  whom  he  made  advances. 
The  Flat,  it  was  evident,  regarded  Mr.  Hackett  in 
a  mysteriously  unfavorable  light.  Young  Sam, 
talkative  both  by  nature  and  in  the  way  of  business, 


150       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

was  kinder,  and  was  rewarded  by  the  purchase  of 
sundry  small  matters  from  his  stock.  After  this 
Mr.  Hackett,  attended  at  a  distance  by  Kit,  took  a 
stroll  up  the  street,  displaying  a  frank  and  curious 
interest  in  all  he  saw,  from  Old  Sam  dozing  in  his 
chair  to  the  beauties  of  Miss  Luppy's  garden.  Hav 
ing  strolled  up  one  side  of  the  street  to  the  edge  of 
the  village  he  had  turned  and  strolled  down  the 
other,  to  the  point  where  the  road  into  the  mine 
branched  off.  After  a  pause,  during  which  he 
stood  with  hands  in  pockets  looking  vaguely  about 
him,  he  sauntered  on  down  this  road,  Kit  follow 
ing  with  immense  precautions,  dodging  from 
boulder  to  boulder,  traveling  on  all-fours  from  one 
hummock  of  earth  to  another,  and  altogether  com 
porting  himself,  I  inferred,  as  much  like  an  intend 
ing  assassin  as  possible. 

They  had  no  more  than  got  fairly  into  the  mine 
than  Kit,  whose  eye,  of  course,  was  glued  to  the 
man  he  was  following,  saw  him  pause  and  look 
attentively  at  something  or  some  one  in  the  dis 
tance.  Doing  likewise,  Kit  was  surprised  to  see  a 
female  figure,  recognizable  as  my  own,  roaming 
about  in  an  aimless  manner,  its  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"What  were  you  up  to,  anyway?"  Kit  interpo 
lated  here. 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       151 

"Looking  for  something,"  I  replied  with  truth. 

After  a  minute  or  two,  during  which  both  Kit 
and  Mr.  Hackett  had  observed  me  unseen,  I  had 
abandoned  these  tactics  and  gone  to  the  foot  of  the 
cliff,  where  I  stood  staring  upward  in  an  idiotic 
fashion — Kit  was  particular  to  make  this  last  point 
clear.  I  was  obliged  to  mention  to  him,  as  I  had  to 
Mr.  Hackett,  that  I  was  looking  up  at  the  tree. 
He  accepted  this  explanation  as  undoubtedly  true 
because  absurd,  and  resumed  his  narrative.  While 
I  stared,  Mr.  Hackett  had  advanced  in  a  remarkably 
light-footed  and  noiseless  manner — followed  with 
circumspection  by  Kit — until  he  stood  at  my  side. 

"And  I  never  saw  anything  look  sillier  than  you 
when  you  turned  round  and  spotted  him,"  added 
Kit  with  fraternal  candor. 

When  the  interview  was  over  and  I  had  climbed 
the  path  Mr.  Hackett  had  stepped  quickly  to  the 
boulder  where  Kit  had  been  concealed  and  looked 
behind  it.  But  already  Kit  had  retreated  to  another 
hiding-place.  Then  Mr.  Hackett  had  strolled  about 
a  little,  his  eyes,  as  my  own  had  been,  upon  the 
ground.  Finally  he  had  returned  to  the  cliff  and 
ascended  the  little  path.  Half-way  up  he  had 
stopped  and  picked  up  something,  which  he  ex 
amined  carefully,  then  flung  away  over  the  edge  of 


152       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

the  path.  But  when  Kit  had  found  it  it  was  only 
the  end  of  a  half-burned  cigarette. 

The  point  of  this  story,  if  it  had  one,  seemed  to 
be  that  Mr.  Hackett  was  a  person  with  a  well- 
developed  bump  of  curiosity  and  of  a  somewhat 
snooping  habit,  though  certainly  my  brother  ap 
peared  to  outdo  him  on  both  counts.  Very  likely 
my  behavior  in  the  mine  had  been  quite  odd  enough 
to  attract  the  interest  of  an  idle  onlooker.  Perhaps 
he  was  contemplating  an  article  for  The  Fanner's 
Friend  on  the  manners  and  customs  of  Bandy's  Flat 
and  was  anxious  that  no  detail  should  escape  him. 
Or  perhaps  he  really  was  that  creature  of  mystery, 
a  slickens  man,  and  then  there  was  no  accounting,  in 
my  present  state  of  ignorance,  for  anything  he 
might  do  or  say. 

Returning  shortly  before  noon  next  day  from  a 
canter  on  Mittens — so  called  because  of  white  fore 
feet  attached  to  an  otherwise  brown  ensemble — I 
was  surprised  to  find  the  object  of  the  above  reflec 
tions  seated  on  the  porch  in  amicable  converse  with 
Miss  Luppy.  Amicable  at  least  on  his  side,  for  on 
hers  there  was  a  certain  repressed  hostility  in  her 
bleak  observant  eye  and  the  uncompromising  pose 
of  the  crossed  arms  on  her  bosom.  Still  more  to 
my  surprise  Kit  made  a  third  in  the  group,  though 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        153 

his  gloomy  air  bespoke  him  an  unwilling  one.  As  I 
was  later  to  learn,  Kit  had  been  forced  by  circum 
stances — and  Mr.  Hackett — into  an  eminently  false 
position.  Mr.  Hackett's  early  morning  walk — at 
tended  unseen  by  Kit — had  taken  him  again  into 
the  mine.  Dogged  by  his  self-appointed  shadow,  he 
had  strolled  on  along  the  track  leading  to  the  river, 
to  which  it  descends  by  a  break  in  the  cup-like  edge 
of  the  vast  excavation.  The  floor  of  the  mine  beside 
the  track  is  comparatively  smooth  and  open,  and 
Kit  had  difficulty  in  keeping  himself  under  cover. 
Therefore  his  alarm  was  great  when  Mr.  Hackett, 
with  no  premonitory  symptoms  of  change  of  mind, 
abruptly  turned  and  began  to  retrace  his  steps.  A 
little  hummock  of  earth  was  providentially  at  hand, 
and  Kit  dropped  behind  it,  to  wait  until  the  quarry 
passed  him  by.  But  at  that  very  point  Mr.  Hackett 
paused,  pulled  out  a  pocket-knife,  eyed  it  consider 
ingly,  opened  it,  and  seating  himself  on  the  hum 
mock  began  carefully  to  trim  his  nails.  It  was  a 
bad  moment,  extremely  bad,  for  the  tails  of  the 
duster  were  actually  tickling  Kit's  nose.  He  had  no 
choice  but  to  lie  still,  and  no  hope  but  that  Mr. 
Hackett  would  rise  and  proceed  without  happening 
to  glance  behind  the  hummock.  Kit  was  weighing 
the  chances  of  this  and  had  about  concluded  they; 


154       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

were  fair  when  Mr.  Hackett,  who  had  been  hum 
ming  a  tune  while  meticulously  attending  to  his 
nails,  remarked  in  a  conversational  tone : 

"Maybe,  now,  it  would  be  worth  while  to  try  a 
brown  hackle  in  the  stream  down  yonder,  though  I 
expect  on  the  whole  the  fishing  ain't  as  good  as  in 
some  of  the  little  creeks  up  in  the  woods." 

A  stupor  of  amazement  fell  on  Kit.  Then,  his 
wits  returning,  he  reflected  that  as  Mr.  Hackett  cer 
tainly  did  not  know  there  was  a  boy  behind  him  he 
was  talking  to  himself  and  must  consequently  be  a 
lunatic.  This,  especially  in  view  of  the  open  pocket- 
knife,  was  not  reassuring,  and  Kit  held  his  breath 
till  suffocation  threatened. 

"I  said,"  repeated  Mr.  Hackett,  "that  I  was 
thinking  of  trying  a  brown  hackle.  Would  you  as 
lives  mention  if  you've  had  any  luck  with  'em  up 
here?  Let  'em  say  what  they  like,  the  real  cracker- 
jack  fisherman,  to  my  mind,  is  a  boy — any  boy. 

'Oh,  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy!' 

Not,  of  course,  to  say  you're  barefoot,  being  con 
trary  to  the  facts,  but  you  won't  take  offense  at  a 
poet's  license,  hey?" 
With  this  he  turned  half  round  and  tapped  the 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        155 

knife-blade  on  the  hummock  till  it  snapped  shut. 
At  the  same  time  the  mild  and  earnest  eyes  behind 
the  spectacles  met  Kit's  with  a  tranquillity  which 
Kit  could  not  return.  He  continued  to  lie  prone, 
staring-  up  at  Mr.  Hackett  with  his  neck  stretched  at 
an  uncomfortable  angle,  until  roused  by  that  gen 
tleman's  suggestion  that  they  might  perhaps  con 
verse  more  freely  if  Kit  resumed  an  upright  posture. 

"Not  but  that  if  you  were  to  go  far  enough  back 
in  our  common  genealogy  you'd  find  our  ancestors 
traveling  on  all  fours  or  even  on  their  stomachs," 
conceded  Mr.  Hackett.  "I  suspect  some  of  'em 
were  those  very  monsters  of  the  prime  the  poet 
writes  of — that  tore  each  other  in  the  slime,  you 
know.  But  we've  changed  our  habits  so  that  to-day 
a  boy  looks  more  natural  perpendicular  than  hori 
zontal.  So  I'd  pick  myself  up,  if  I  were  you."  In  a 
dazed  fashion  Kit  found  himself  obeying  this  indis 
putably  sound  advice. 

Mr.  Hackett  rose  also  and  they  strolled  on  to 
gether  in  the  friendliest  manner  up  into  the  village. 
Here  Kit  suffered  the  mortification  of  passing  with 
his  new  acquaintance  under  the  eye  of  Asa  Cobb, 
without  opportunity  to  inform  his  older  and  more 
valued  friend  that  he  himself  was  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  a  captive.  Of  course  he  might  have  broken 


156       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

away  and  run,  but  under  the  spell  of  Mr.  Hackett's 
affability,  his  confiding  friendliness,  this  somehow 
seemed  impossible.  Besides,  could  one  be  certain 
just  how  far  it  was  safe  to  defy  Mr.  Hackett? 
Meanwhile  Mr.  Hackett  discoursed  on  angling. 
Not  a  word  as  to  what  Kit  had  been  doing  behind 
the  little  ridge  of  earth,  or  how  Mr.  Hackett  had 
discovered  him  there.  Bait  and  tackle  alone  were 
Mr.  Hackett's  theme.  And  before  Kit  knew  what 
was  impending  they  had  walked  in  at  Miss  Luppy's 
gate  and  up  to  the  side  door,  where,  the  mistress  of 
the  house  appearing,  Mr.  Hackett  had  introduced 
himself,  with  playful  allusions  to  his  young  friend 
from  which  you  might  have  inferred  that  he  was 
there  at  the  young  friend's  earnest  solicitation. 

This  was  the  situation  when  I  arrived,  to  be 
greeted  with  warmth  by  Mr.  Hackett  as  an  old 
acquaintance.  To  my  surprise  I  found  myself  tac 
itly  accepting  that  character.  One  couldn't,  really, 
disappoint  that  child-like  confidence  in  our  friend 
ship  and  esteem  which  his  unembarrassed  air  dis 
played.  Already  he  had  taken  the  Flat  to  his  lean 
bosom,  had  detected  that  special  favor  of  the  past 
which  it  possessed.  Producing  a  book  from  his 
pocket,  he  proceeded  to  read  us  extracts  which  he 
felt  were  exact  portrayals  of  the  Bandy's  Flat  of 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       157. 

seventy  years  ago.  Various  aged  persons  whom  he 
had  seen  about  were,  to  his  mind,  mere  later  phases 
of  Tennessee's  Pardner,  M'liss,  and  others.  One 
elderly  man,  whom  we  identified  as  Wade  Barrett, 
the  lame  clock-mender,  had  in  Mr.  Hackett's 
opinion  figured  in  infancy  as  the  Luck  of  the  cele 
brated  tale  of  Roaring  Camp. 

"But  the  Luck  was  drowned  when  he  was  a 
baby!"  I  remonstrated,  struggling  against  an 
insane  inclination  to  believe  that  Wade  Barrett 
Sreally  was  the  Luck.  Mr.  Hackett's  own  faith  was 
so  contagious,  there  was  something  so  almost 
hypnotic  in  the  earnest  regard  of  the  owlish  spec 
tacles,  that  the  absurd  conviction  had  all  but  forced 
itself  upon  me. 

"According  to  the  author,  I'll  allow/*  he  said, 
shaking  his  head,  "but  ain't  it  a  fact  that  authors 
will  now  and  then  kind  of  dress  up  the  facts  a  little? 
Of  course  drowning  the  Luck  that  way  made  a  bet 
ter  story  of  it,  I  admit.  Or  to  give  the  author 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  he  may  have  thought  the 
Luck  was  drowned,  sure  enough,  and  then  at  the 
last  minute  the  child  may  have  been  brought  to  by 
rolling  on  a  barrel.  Anyway  you  look  at  it  there 
ain't  a  mite  of  proof,  not  a  mite,  but  what  Wade 
Barrett  is  the  real  genuine  Luck." 


158       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

While  I  was  still  seeking  confusedly  for  the 
answer — for  I  felt  sure  there  was  an  answer — to 
this  preposterous  assertion  Mr.  Hackett  had  passed 
on  to  other  matters. 

"That's  a  neat  little  cottage  up  the  road  a  ways," 
he  remarked.  "Just  beyond  the  cemetery,  I  mean. 
Looks  well  cared  for — ground  watered  regularly,  I 
see — yet  nobody  home,  it  seems,  but  a  cat.  I  hap 
pen  to  have  paid  attention  on  account  of  taking  a 
notion  to  the  place.  Thought  if  I  could  rent  it  I 
might  stay  on  a  while.  You  mightn't  think  it,  but 
I've  got  a  kind  of  melancholy  streak  that  would 
make  the  neighborhood  of  a  bury  ing-ground  real 
congenial.  The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting 
day — '  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  And  when  it 
comes  to  the  line,  The  rude  forefathers  of  the  ham 
let  sleep/  ain't  it  this  very  cemetery  to  the  life?  I 
tell  you,  ladies,  poetic  inspiration  is  a  wonderful 
thing!  Where  might  the  owner  of  that  cottage 
happen  to  be  just  now?" 

The  query  came  with  an  effect  of  suddenness  at 
the  end  of  Mr.  Hackett's  meandering  speech.  The 
effect  was  so  pronounced,  indeed,  that  neither  Miss 
Luppy  nor  I  seemed  capable  of  a  reply,  though  Mr. 
Hackett  turned  his  spectacles  inquiringly  from  one 
to  the  other.  It  was  Kit,  finally,  who  murmured 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        159 

hoarsely  that  the  fellow  that  lived  in  the  cottage 
had  slid  out. 

"Slid  out?  Well!"  remarked  Mr.  Hackett  with 
an  air  of  impersonal  interest.  "That's  an  odd 
expression,  now !  But  then  the  rising  generation  do 
seem  to  talk  a  lingo  of  their  own.  Ain't  that  so. 
m'am?"  he  appealed  to  Miss  Luppy. 

"It  certainly  ain't  the  kind  of  talk  /  was  rizzed 
up  on,"  Miss  Luppy  agreed.  Though  her  aspect 
was  still  ungenial  as  a  wintry  dawn,  her  attentive 
gaze  at  Mr.  Hackett  had  in  it  an  element  of  unwilling 
admiration. 

"Slid  out,  hey?"  continued  Mr.  Hackett.  "Sup 
pose  you  explain  to  us  grown  folks — to  count  Miss 
Sally  here  as  one,  though  she's  really  only  'standing 
with  reluctant  feet  where  the  brook  and  river  meet/ 
as  the  poet  says — just  precisely  what  you  mean  by 
this  party — what'd  you  say  his  name  was,  by  the 
way?" 

Kit  had  not  said  it  was  anything,  but  he  now 
admitted  that  the  party  in  question  was  one  Eben 
Gregg. 

"Eben  Gregg — so  'twas!"  Mr.  Hackett  wore  a 
cheerful  air  of  having  recalled  it  for  himself.  "Well, 
and  so  Eben  Gregg  has  slid  out,  has  he  ?" 

Kit  squirmed  resentfully,  not  caring,  naturally,  to 


160       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

share  with  this  too  curious  stranger  his  belief  as  to 
the  cause  and  circumstances  of  Eben  Gregg's  de 
parture.  And  yet  that  odd  knack  of  Mr.  Hackett's 
of  drawing  forth  answers  to  questions  which  were 
obviously  none  of  his  business  was  not  to  be  re 
sisted.  Kit  therefore  gave  up  with  an  ill  grace  the 
information  that  Mr.  Gregg  had  been  for  some  time 
absent  from  his  cottage,  but  that  he,  Kit,  had  been 
unable  to  make  sure  of  the  whereabouts  of  the 
absentee.  And  of  course  you  plainly  perceived  that 
in  Kit's  opinion  this  was  matter  of  mysterious  if  not 
of  tragic  import. 

But  Mr.  Hackett  evidently  did  not  grasp  this. 
He  merely  said  in  a  disappointed  tone : 

"Ah!  So  you  don't  know  how  I  could  get  word 
to  him  about  wanting  to  rent  his  house?" 

"Search  me!"  muttered  Kit  crossly. 

"Nor  you,  m'am?"  Mr.  Hackett  turned  his 
spectacles  on  Miss  Luppy. 

"If  Eben's  away,  which  I  ain't  heard  tell  of,  I 
expect  he's  off  workin'  somewheres  round  the  coun 
try,"  she  replied.  "Anyway,  he  ain't  left  his  address 
with  me!9 

Mr.  Hackett  shook  his  head  regretfully,  then  like 
a  philosopher  turned  his  thoughts  to  other  matters. 

"I've    been    wondering    just    what    the    chances 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        161 

might  be  for  finding  a  real  lively,  hustling  young 
man  in  this  community  that  would  like  to  make  a 
good  thing  for  himself,  in  a  small  way,  financially. 
I  don't  mind  admitting,  right  here,  that  The 
Farmer's  Friend,  et  cetera,  ain't  the  only  iron  I've 
got  in  the  fire.  I've  got  the  Coast  agencies  for 
some  attractive  little  side-lines  besides,  and  I've 
been  looking  out,  in  the  different  towns  on  my  beat, 
for  the  right  man  to  handle  'em  for  me  locally.  I 
had  made  my  mind  up  to  forget  business  when  I 
came  to  the  Flat,  meant  to  be  a  regular  old  Ike 
Walton  for  a  couple  of  weeks  anyway,  but  after  all 
I  expect  I  may  as  well  get  in  a  few  licks  if  I  can. 
Now  this  strikes  me  as  a  mighty  substantial  little 
community,  m'am — slow,  maybe,  but  substantial. 
Consequently,  why  not  make  it  the  center,  for  dis 
tribution  through  this  section,  of  the  Fairy  Princess 
washing-machine,  the  only  machine  on  the  market 
that  is  guaranteed  at  a  minimum  of  cost  and  effort 
to  turn  out  work  superior  to  the  best  hand?  No, 
no,  m'am" — as  Miss  Luppy  tried  to  interrupt — "not 
Sam  Davis.  He's  a  good  man,  no  doubt,  but  his 
methods  are  old-style.  And  he  ain't  young  enough 
to  unlearn.  I  want  a  young  man,  one  I  could  fill 
up  with  my  own  ideas  of  salesmanship.  Trouble  is, 
young  men  is  so  almighty  scarce  up  here;  why,  it 


1 62       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

makes  me  feel  like  a  spring-chicken  myself,  to  see 
all  these  old  boys  holding  the  center  of  the  stage, 
with  no  young  "ones  to  shove  'em  off.  What  I  want 
to  know  is,  ain't  there  some  likely  young  fellow  in 
the  place  that  I  could  maybe  talk  business  to?" 

Miss  Luppy  had  begun  slowly  to  shake  her  head 
when  Kit  spoke  up. 

"Sure,  there's  Brett  Morgan,"  he  remarked. 

"Brett  Morgan?"  repeated  Mr.  Hackett.  "Well, 
that  wouldn't  look  so  bad  on  a  business  card.  Let's 
see,  have  I  seen  him  around  anywhere,  I  wonder? 
I  don't  recollect  any  one  who'd  answer  to  the 
description  of  young — unless  the  Davis  lad  down  to 
the  store,"  he  corrected  himself  with  a  chuckle. 

"I  guess  Brett  Morgan  hasn't  been  around  for  a 
day  or  so — sometimes  he  isn't,"  explained  Kit,  con 
firming  an  impression  of  the  same  sort  I  had  had 
myself. 

"Ah — where's  he  put  in  his  time?"  inquired  Mr. 
Hackett. 

Kit  didn't  know,  unless  he  was  hunting  or  per 
haps  cutting  wood  somewhere  on  the  ridge. 

"And  he's  a  real  hustling,  active  young  fellow?" 
Before  Kit  could  reply,  or  Miss  Luppy  either,  on 
whose  countenance  I  saw  the  shade  of  disapproval 
darkening,  he  went  on.  "Of  course  I'd  want  some 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        163 

one  who  knew  the  country  and  the  folks — this  Mor 
gan  been  here  long?" 

"He  was  born  here/'  said  Miss  Luppy  shortly, 
"but " 

"Always  lived  here — never  been  away?"  pur 
sued  Mr.  Hackett. 

"He's  been  away  more'n  he's  been  home,  since 
he  was  a  man  grown,  anyway,"  replied  Miss  Luppy. 
"It  ain't  but  now  and  then  he  comes  home  to  see  his 
mother — unless  you'd  call  it  to  live  on  her.  I  don't 
know  when  Brett's  stayed  around  home  long  as  he 
has  this  summer.  But " 

"Oh,  he  just  came  home  lately,  did  he?"  Mr. 
Hackett  asked.  "Of  course  these  are  all  points  to 
be  considered,  you  know,"  he  added,  looking  round 
at  us  with  an  air  of  taking  it  for  granted  that  we 
saw  as  clearly  as  himself  why  these  were  points  to 
be  considered.  None  of  us  did  see,  I  think,  but 
somehow  we  all  joined  in  a  murmur  of  agreement. 
"What  would  you  call  lately,  now?"  he  resumed 
with  a  businesslike  crispness  in  his  tone.  "Last 
week,  say — or  maybe  sometime  back  in  the  spring?" 

Having  my  own  reasons  for  remembering  it,  I 
was  able  to  give  with  accuracy  the  date  of  Brett 
Morgan's  return. 

"Well,  it  sounds  fairly  promising,"  admitted  Mr. 


1 64        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Hackett,  glancing  at  Miss  Luppy,  who  had  opened 
her  mouth  to  speak  and  then  closed  it  without  ful 
filling  her  intention.  I  understood  that  her  first 
purpose  of  disclaiming  all  responsibility  for  the 
selection  of  Brett  Morgan  as  agent  for  the  Fairy 
Princess  washing-machine — incredibly  fantastic  the 
idea  seemed  as  he  rose  before  my  mind's  eye — had 
been  neutralized  by  regard  for  Mrs.  Morgan. 

"It  sounds  fairly  promising,"  Mr.  Hackett  re 
peated,  "but  of  course  a  thing  like  this  oughtn't  to 
be  jumped  into  in  a  hurry.  I  expect  I'll  do  a  little 
studying  about  it  first — got  plenty  of  time,  for  I 
aim  to  stay  around  a  couple  of  weeks,  anyway. 
Meanwhile  I  want  to  get  in  all  the  fishing  I  can.  I 
suppose  you  won't  object  if  I  call  round  now  and 
then  to  get  our  young  friend  here  to  go  with  me. 
We've  got  it  fixed  up  that  he's  to  pilot  me  round — 
be  in  short  my  guide,  philosopher  and  friend —  Stay 
to  dinner — will  I?  'Come  one,  come  all,  this  rock 
shall  fly  from  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I/  as  the  poet 
says,  which  means  that  I  am  not  to  be  pried  loose 
from  this  spot  before  doing  justice  to  your  hos 
pitality." 

Whether  Miss  Luppy  had  invited  Mr.  Hackett  to 
dine  under  the  hypnotic  spell  which  his  rapid  and 
fluent  conversation  seemed  to  cast  upon  us  all,  or 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       165 

to  atone  for  the  earlier  coldness  of  her  demeanor  I 
do  not  know,  but  certainly,  and  to  my  great  sur 
prise,  she  had  invited  him.  Though  still  in  the  dark 
as  to  the  nature  of  a  slickens  man,  I  understood  that 
it  was  not  such  as  to  recommend  him  to  any  inhabi 
tant  of  the  Flat.  Probably,  then,  Miss  Luppy  had 
ceased  to  suspect  Mr.  Hackett  of  being  one,  and  this 
was  her  fashion  of  making  him  amends.  It  was 
ample  amends,  if  one  might  judge  from  his  evident 
appreciation  of  the  fare  set  before  him. 

Who  had  told  him  about  Bandy  Bates  I  didn't 
know,  probably  the  loquacious  Mr.  Davis,  but  he  ex 
pressed  the  greatest  interest  in  that  celebrated  charac 
ter,  and  listened  with  attention  to  the  outline  sketch  I 
gave  him  of  the  pioneer's  career.  I  repeated  as  nearly 
as  I  could  in  Asa  Cobb's  own  words  the  tale  he  had 
told  me  of  Bandy's  last  hours — partly,  I'm  afraid, 
because  Kit  looked  upon  my  imitations  of  Asa  Cobb 
as  in  the  nature  of  iese  majcste.  But  Mr.  Hackett 
applauded  rapturously,  and  was  good  enough  to  de 
clare  it  as  good  as  any  "piece"  he  had  ever  heard 
spoken. 

After  dinner  he  insisted,  in  his  friendly 
fashion,  on  helping  Miss  Luppy  in  the  kitchen, 
where  he  proved  himself  a  dish-wiper  of  parts.  This 
done  he  took  leave,  explaining  that  a  feature  of  his 


166       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

vacation  program  was  an  after-dinner  nap,  and  that 
being  a  man  of  method  he  invariably  followed  a 
program  to  the  letter.  Kit,  still  wearing  the  dazed 
expression  which  had  resulted  from  Mr.  Hackett's 
surprising  tactics  earlier  in  the  day,  departed  to 
make  his  peace  with  Asa  Cobb.  Miss  Luppy,  after 
exclaiming  several  times,  "My  land,  ain't  he  the 
beatingest?"  settled  down  to  hemming  tea-towels. 
And  I  went  up-stairs  to  write  up  my  diary,  in  which 
I  put  down  all  this  story  about  Mr.  Hackett,  because 
although  there  were  other  matters  which  were  much 
more  in  my  thoughts,  I  hadn't  yet  got  to  the  stage 
where  I  could  contemplate  them  in  cold  ink. 


CHAPTER  XI 

'THWO  days  later — I  think,  though  the  entries  in 
A  rny  diary  are  irregular  and  sometimes  without 
a  date — I  heard  from  my  window  the  sound  of 
hoofs  and  the  click  of  the  stable-yard  gate.  It  was 
Joe,  of  course,  barely  in  time  for  dinner  and  with 
only  a  little  while  to  stay — but  he  had  ridden  all 
those  miles  for  just  that  little  while.  Dinner  over, 
we  sat  in  the  arbor  and  I  told  him  all  about  E.  Nes 
tor  Hackett — all,  that  is,  but  the  exact  nature  of 
the  circumstances  under  which  I  had  first  encoun 
tered  him.  For  I  couldn't  explain  my  interest  in 
the  old  saloon  without  speaking  of  the  light  I  had 
seen  in  it  that  night.  And  to  speak  of  it,  without 
revealing  my  consciousness  that  it  was  Joe  to  whom 
the  evidence  of  the  key  still  hanging  by  the  kitchen 
window  pointed  was  beyond  me.  Of  course  if  it 
had  been  Joe  it  was  all  right — nothing  could  shake 
my  conviction  of  this — but  until  he  chose  to  give 
me  his  confidence  I  would  not  seem  to  ask  it. 

But  in  spite  of  the  necessary  slurring  of  detail 


i68       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Joe  at  once  understood  the  humorousness  of  Mr. 
Hackett.  That  was  the  nice  thing  about  Joe,  he 
always  did  understand.  Except  just  sometimes 
about  Jimmie  Halliday  and  things  like  that.  But 
he  himself  was  rather  quiet  and  preoccupied,  and 
after  a  while  it  came  out  that  the  chief  had  dropped 
in  at  the  dam  suddenly,  and  praised  everything,  and 
was  especially  pleased  because  the  work  was  being 
finished  a  good  deal  under  contract  time.  And  he 
had  as  good  as  promised  Joe  something  really  big 
as  soon  as — in  a  very  little  while  now — Joe  was 
through  with  the  job  on  the  Grizzly.  Only  it  would 
almost  certainly  be  a  long  way  off,  in  South  Amer 
ica  or  somewhere —  And  there  was  a  silence  that 
lengthened  until  I  began  rather  desperately  to  talk 
of  trivial  things. 

All  of  a  sudden,  time  behaving  in  the  unaccount 
able  fashion  it  does  now  and  then,  it  was  late  and 
Joe  had  to  leave.  But  it  was  such  a  ridiculously 
short  afternoon  that  by  way  of  prolonging  it  Joe 
suggested  my  riding  with  him  part  way  up  the 
ridge.  So  we  saddled  Mittens  and  had  a  good  run 
up  the  road  until  we  had  passed  the  cemetery  and 
Eben  Gregg's  deserted  house  and  the  trail  turned 
up  the  mountain.  And  presently  the  conversation 
got  round  to  South  America  again,  and  Joe  said 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        169 

gloomily  that  there  was  something-  after  all  in  being 
a  rich  man's  son,  though  he  had  always  been  glad 
not  to  be,  and  proud  of  making  his  own  way.  I 
asked  in  a  voice  that  wouldn't  sound  quite  ordinary 
what  had  changed  his  mind,  and  he  said  simply  the 
discovery  that  a  poor  man  had  no  business  to  fall  in 
love.  Because  the  first  thing  it  did  was  to  make  a 
selfish  beast  of  him,  and  there  were  moments  when 
he  could  even  imagine  a  fellow's  getting  so  low- 
down  as  to  ask  a  girl  to  come  with  him  to  some 
horrible  out-of-the-way  spot  for  no  better  reason 
than  that  he  couldn't  bear  to  go  without  her.  I  said, 
in  that  absurdly  shaky  voice,  that  of  course  the  abom 
inably  selfish  thing  would  be  for  a  man  to  go  ever 
so  far  off,  perhaps  for  years  and  years,  and  leave  a 
girl  to  eat  her  heart  out  at  home.  But  he  answered 
almost  roughly  that  I  didn't  understand,  didn't 
dream  what  life  was  like  in  some  of  the  places  a  man 
might  be  sent  to. 

We  were  silent  for  a  time,  while  the  ponies 
climbed  up  and  up  through  the  pine  woods,  and  then 
because  the  lump  in  my  throat  kept  getting  bigger 
and  bigger,  until  something  had  to  be  done  about 
it  at  once,  I  began  to  talk  very  gaily  about  Jimmie 
Halliday,  whose  uncle  had  died  lately  and  left  him 
whole  barrels  of  money.  I  said  just  fancy  the 


170       FORTUNE  AT  .BANDY'S  FLAT 

swathe  he'd  cut,  and  Joe  said  soberly  of  course  he 
would  and  equally  of  course  a  girl  would  be  dazzled 
by  it,  would  be  drawn  in  the  end  to  a  man  of  the 
same  antecedents,  the  same  standards  and  associa 
tions  as  her  own.  A  plain  old  roughneck,  a  man 
that  had  knocked  about  and  lived  as  he  could,  had 
best  not  try  to  climb  out  of  his  own  grade. 

We  had  got  to  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  where 
our  ways  parted.  I  reined  in  Mittens  and  lifted  my 
eyes  to  Joe's.  He  didn't  meet  them,  but  sat  staring 
straight  ahead  between  Grumpy's  ears. 

"G-good-by,  Joe,"  I  managed  with  an  effort,  and 
held  out  my  hand.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  see  it, 
and  with  a  muttered  good-by — as  if  his  throat  too 
were  a  little  husky — he  turned  and  rode  away. 

As  Mittens  and  I  went  slowly  down  the  trail  I 
had  to  fight  against  an  all  but  overwhelming  im 
pulse  to  turn  and  hurry  up  it  again,  to  give  voice  to 
the  words  that  were  crying  themselves  over  and 
over  in  my  heart: 

"Oh,  Joe,  let's  not  quarrel — and  Jimmie  is  a 
pest!" 

How  much  more  sensible  between  friends,  and 
how  much  pleasanter  than  to  go  on  enduring  this 
ache  that  was  spreading  its  soreness  through  every 
nerve.  But  I  put  a  hard  grip  on  myself  and  rode 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        171 

on.  Sensible  things  and  pleasant  things  are  so  often 
the  very  things  one  mustn't  do!  And  because  they 
go  undone  lives  are  spoiled  and  happiness,  that  shy 
Bird  of  Paradise  that  never  quite  touches  earth  but 
only  hovers  near  it  sometimes  for  a  little  while,  is 
off  on  its  swift  wing,  perhaps  to  return  no  more. 

We  had  descended  a  good  way,  and  had  not  far 
to  go  before  the  thick  woods  upon  the  ridge  would 
give  place  to  the  scattering  growth  on  the  hill  above 
the  town,  when  Mittens  all  at  once  \vent  lame.  I 
dismounted,  and  after  lifting  and  helplessly  regard 
ing  the  lame  foot  decided  there  was  a  stone  in  the 
shoe  which  I  had  no  idea  in  the  world  how  to  take 
out,  and  that  the  rest  of  the  way  I  must  walk.  I 
had  not  more  than  come  to  this  conclusion  when 
there  was  a  sudden  pricking  of  the  pony's  ears  and 
a  slight  sound  behind  me.  I  turned  quickly,  to*  find 
myself  facing  Brett  Morgan. 

He  smiled  down  at  me,  a  half-hidden  gleam  of 
triumph  in  his  eyes,  and  took  off  his  hat  with  his 
courtier-like  air. 

"It's  right  pleasant  and  quiet  up  here  in  the 
woods,  ain't  it,  Sally?"  he  said  in  his  deep  soft 
voice. 

Under  the  shock  of  the  encounter  I  had  felt  my 
lips  whiten.  They  faltered  now  helplessly  over  the 


172       FORTUNE.  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

reply  I  tried  to  make.  I  stood  looking*  up  at  him 
with  all  my  terror  in  my  blanched  face. 

"It's  so  nice  and  quiet,  and  there  ain't  no  danger 
of  any  one  buttin'  in — I  guess  we  might  as  well  set 
here  a  while  on  the  pine-needles  and  talk,  Sally,"  he 
continued.  "It  ain't  often  I  git  a  chance  with  you, 
you  know;  a  person  might  pretty  near  suppose  you 
was  keepin'  out  o'  my  way  a-purpose."  He  said 
this  with  irony,  his  gaze  dwelling  somberly  on  mine. 
Anger  and  wounded  pride  had  had  their  place  in 
the  impulse  which  had  made  him  seek  this  meeting, 
and  the  realization  did  not  comfort  me.  He  would 
be  none  the  more  tractable  for  that  reason. 

"I  must  go  home,"  I  said  unsteadily.  "Please — 
please  don't  delay  me,  Mr.  Morgan.  I  have  been 
away  too  long  now." 

"If  you  have  it  was  on  account  of  Lambert,"  he 
answered,  his  black  brows  contracting.  "Because 
you've  give  him  too  much  time  ain't  no  reason  for 
not  givin'  me  none,  is  it?  You  know  what  I  told 
you,  Sally — I  won't  stand  for  but  jest  so  much. 
Lambert's  been  with  you  the  best  part  o'  the  day, 
and  a  lot  o'  other  days  besides.  Now  you  can  let 
me  have  a  show." 

But  my  first  demoralized  terror  had  spent  itself, 
and  against  this  masterfulness  my  spirit  rose. 


•      FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        173 

"If  you  expect  to  get  anywhere  with  me  this  way 
you  are  mistaken,"  I  said,  meeting  his  frowning 
eyes  defiantly.  "Gentlemen  don't  take  this — this 
ordering  tone  with  women,  Mr.  Morgan." 

"All  right,  then,  I  guess  I  ain't  one,"  he 
answered  coolly.  "I  guess  I  ain't  anything  but  a 
roughneck,  that  knows  what  he  wants  and  goes 
about  the  shortest  way  to  git  it.  Order  you !  Don't 
I  wish  I  was  where  I  could  order  you — yes,  and 
make  you  mind  me,  too !  And  when  I'd  got  you  all 
broke  in  and  gentled,  the  way  a  bronc  is  when  it's 
gone  buckin'  round  the  corral  long  enough  with  a 
rider  it  can't  throw,  why,  then  you'd  find  you  could 
rule  me  with  one  finger  of  your  little  hand.  And 
you'd  love  me,  Sally,  'cause  any  woman'll  love  a 
man  that  can  first  break  her  in  and  then'll  bow 
down  and  worship  her  like  she  was  a  queen — like  I 
would  you,  Sally !" 

He  made  a  sudden  step  toward  me.  I  drew 
back  quickly,  but  his  hand  had  closed  on  mine.  He 
continued  to  hold  it,  while  his  dark  eyes,  fiercely 
tender,  glowing  with  dangerous  light  behind  their 
heavy  lashes,  dwelt  hungrily  on  my  face.  And  in 
my  ears  was  the  echo  of  a  voice  that  spoke  in  dreary 
warning,  "Miss  Sally,  keep  clear  of  my  boy  Brett. 
He's  no  tamer  inside  than  a  panther" 


174       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"Ah,  your  beautiful  eyes  ain't  blazin'  now!"  he 
went  on,  his  tone  half  caressing,  half  exul 
tant  with  the  sense  of  power.  "They're  right 
scared  and  beseechin',  girlie,  like  they  was  pleadin' 
with  me  not  to  take — the  kiss  you  been  owin'  me 
this  long  time.  Yes,  you  do  owe  it  to  me,  Sally, 
'cause  you  been  so  damned  proud  and  standoffish — 
tormentin'  me  by  lettin'  that  half-baked  pup  of  an 
engineer  hang  round  you,  and  keepin'  out  o'  my 
way  all  you  could.  And  yet  you  know  I  love  you, 
and  you  don't  forget  it,  not  a  minute.  Every  time 
I  see  you,  no  matter  how  far  off,  I  know  you're 
thinkin',  'There's  the  fellow  that  loves  me,  so  he 
can't  put  his  mind  on  nothin'  else,  nor  quit  the 
Flat' — like  I'd  a  whole  lot  better,  Sally — 'nor  keep 
from  waitin'  around  night  and  day  for  a  sight  o'  me. 
He  loves  me,  and  I'm  scared  of  him,  and  I  don't 
want  to  love  him  back,  and  yet  I  can't  help  but  think 
of  him,  whether  I  want  to  or  not/  Ain't  that  the 
truth,  Sally?" 

It  was,  but  the  fact  that  he  had  discovered  it 
reassured  me  not  at  all.  Neither  did  the  pressure 
of  the  hand  that  held  my  wrist,  nor  the  gaze  that 
dwelt  on  me  ever  more  avidly.  How  was  I  to 
release  myself,  without  paying  the  toll  that  he 
asked?  To  scream  wouldn't  help — there  was  no 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       175 

human  being  within  ear-shot.  Would  tears,  entreat 
ies,  move  him  ?  Would  anger  and  scorn  ?  Ah,  none 
of  these  would  avail  me  at  all  against  the  thing  that 
I  saw  in  his  eyes,  that  swiftly  brightening  flame 
which  made  my  own  droop  before  them!  My 
thoughts  flashed  to  that  moment  now  so  terrify- 
ingly  near,  when  his  arms  would  close  about  me, 
when  the  kiss  of  which  he  spoke  would  be  a  scorch 
ing,  withering  reality,  when  the  warning  of  the 
dark  sad  woman  by  the  graveyard  gate  would 
unforgettably  have  justified  itself.  And  then,  on 
the  moment  of  my  choking  dread,  on  the  pause  that 
brought  him  closer  and  closer  to  my  side,  there 
came  the  most  incredible,  the  most  amazing,  the 
most  blessedly  welcome  of  sounds — a  human  voice, 
thin,  hoarse  and  most  unmusical,  singing  The  Long 
Trail  quite  out  of  tune.  It  came  from  the  woods  not 
far  away,  and  was  approaching  steadily. 

"There's  a  long,  long  trail  a-winding 
To  the  land  of  my  dreams — " 

It  was  nearer — 

"Where  the  nightingales  are  singing 
And  a  bright — moon — beams " 

It  was  very  near. 


176       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

For  a  minute,  measured  by  my  hurrying  heart 
beats,  we  had  stood  quite  still,  heads  raised  in  listen 
ing,  and  emotions  the  most  opposite  dawning  in  our 
faces.  As  the  man's  thunderously  darkened  so,  I 
suppose,  mine  brightened.  I  know  a  sigh  of  utter 
thankfulness  escaped  me.  It  was  echoed  by  a  low 
curse  from  Morgan's  lips.  He  had  hardly  an 
instant's  grace — the  unseen  singer  was  at  hand. 
The  tableau  dissolved  itself  between  two  breaths, 
and  Morgan,  the  oath  still  on  his  lips,  had  disap 
peared  into  the  woods.  At  almost  the  same  moment 
from  among  the  pines  farther  up  the  trail  emerged 
Mr.  E.  Nestor  Hackett,  duster,  spectacles  and  all 
still  unmusically  warbling : 

"Till  the  day  when  I'll  be  going  down 
That  long,  long  trail " 

At  sight  of  me  he  stopped  short.  Then  with  looks 
of  pleased  surprise  irradiating  his  very  spectacles  he 
advanced  quickly. 

"Well,  now,  if  this  ain't  luck!"  he  exclaimed 
cordially.  "Luck  for  me,  I  mean — I  was  just  about 
the  next  thing  to  lost.  Tried  taking  short-cuts,  you 
know,  and  pretty  soon  I'd  missed  my  bearings 
altogether.  And  then  I  find  you  waiting  in  the 
trail,  all  ready  to  guide  my  erring  footsteps  home." 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        177 

I  heard  myself,  in  an  unsteady  voice,  explaining 
that  the  pony  had  gone  lame. 

"Well,  it  ain't  but  a  stone,  I  guess/'  he  remarked 
cheerfully.  "Stand  still,  old  boy,  and  let  the  doctor 
feel  your  pulse.  That's  it" — he  made  some  deft 
prods  with  his  knife —  "there  you  are,  little  horse, 
and  here's  the  stone  that  was  giving  all  the  trouble, 
Miss  Sally — you  don't  mind  Miss  Sally,  do  you, 
from  one  already  far  gone  in  the  sere  and  yellow 
leaf?  And  now,  always  supposing  you're  willing, 
I'll  lead  the  pony  and  we'll  hit  the  trail  for  town." 

I  was  quite  willing,  I  told  him,  with  a  lightness 
which  to  me  was  the  hollowest  of  shams,  but  to  him 
was  evidently  convincing.  How  thankful  I  was  for 
the  simplicity — or  was  it  the  short-sightedness? — 
of  the  eyes  behind  the  owlish  spectacles,  eyes  which 
appeared  not  to  see  me  as  pale,  agitated,  or  unrea 
sonably,  all  but  weepingly,  glad  to  see  him ;  as  any 
thing,  indeed,  but  my  every-day  self.  For  every 
reason  in  the  world,  of  course,  I  wished  my  encoun 
ter  with  Brett  Morgan  to  remain  a  secret.  And  as  we 
went  down  the  trail  together  I  thanked  Heaven  not 
only  for  the  opportune  arrival  but  for  the  obtuse- 
ness  of  Mr.  Hackett. 


CHAPTER  XII 

TRUE  to  his  word,  Mr.  Hackett  appeared  next 
morning  to  take  Kit  fishing.  Having  seen  them 
depart,  Kit  with  the  air  of  a  captive  led  away  in 
chains,  I  went  out  to  the  stable  with  an  apple  apiece 
for  Mittens  and  Kit's  Black  Bart.  I  found  Mr. 
Cobb  currying  the  ponies,  with  the  aspect  of  a 
deeply  injured  man.  To  my  good  morning  he 
replied  only  by  a  gloomy  nod. 

"Kit's  gone  fishing,  you  know,"  I  remarked,  to 
explain  my  brother's  absence  from  his  usual  post  of 
Mr.  Cobb's  prideful  substitute  in  the  work  about 
the  stable. 

"Uh-huh — with  that  whiskered  party  he's  took 
up  with,"  remarked  Mr.  Cobb,  with  a  nod  convey 
ing  unutterable  things. 

"I  think  it's  rather  the  whiskered  party  that  has 
taken  up  with  him,"  I  amended,  willing  to  soothe 
if  possible  the  jealous  soul  of  Mr.  Cobb. 

There  was  a  pause,  while  Mr.  Cobb  curried  with 
gloomy  vigor. 

178 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       179 

"Well,  he  can't  say  I  ain't  warned  him !"  he  pres 
ently  grumbled, 

"Warned  him  of  what?" 

"Warned  him  about  folks — what  ain't  got  no 
business  here — stickin'  in  their  darned  noses  and 
spyin'  round !"  These  disconnected  mutter- 
ings  came  from  the  depths  of  Mr.  Cobb's  beard. 

"Spying  round  for  what?"  I  recalled  the  con 
versation  Kit  had  overheard  between  Mr.  Cobb  and 
Miss  Luppy.  Impressed  though  Miss  Luppy  was 
with  the  fluency  of  Mr.  Hackett's  quotations  from 
the  poets,  you  still  perceived  in  her  eye  a  shade  of 
the  suspicion  Mr.  Cobb  had  voiced  on  that  occasion. 
Mr.  Cobb's  mysterious  accusation,  that  Mr.  Hackett 
was  a  slickens  man,  had  not  yet  been  disproved. 

"Spying  round  for  what?"  I  more  urgently 
repeated.  Mr.  Cobb  paused  in  his  task  and  gave  me 
a  sharp  sidewise  glance  from  under  his  shabby  old 
hat-brim. 

"Spyin'  round  for  trouble,  that's  what,"  he  said 
darkly.  "And  it's  what  they're  a  deal  liker  to  find 
than  anythin'  else,  you  bet!  I  ain't  said  nothin', 
mind  you,  only  to  Miss  Luppy,  which  for  a  female 
she  has  a  real  un female  talent  for  keepin'  her  head 
shut.  Mostly,  to  tell  anythin'  to  a  woman  is  like 
feedin'  soap  to  a  geyser — it  jest  natcherally  makes 


i8o       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

'em  spout.  But  I  ain't  the  only  party  in  this  town 
with  eyes;  there's  others  what's  bound  to  see  for 
themselves,  and  when  they  does,  why,  Whiskers 
had  better  keep  that  machine  of  his  cranked  up, 
that's  all.  'Cause  somethin's  liable  to  start  and 
start  real  sudden." 

"Mr.  Cobb,  on  Kit's  account  it's  your  duty  to  tell 
me  right  away  what  this  means,"  I  announced  with 
a  resolute  air  which  I  hoped  disguised  my  tingling 
curiosity.  "If  there's  anything  queer  about  Mr. 
Hackett — if  he's  a  slickens  man,  for  instance " 

"Who's  been  tellin'  you  anything  about  slickens 
men?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"Kit,"  I  replied,  trying  to  look  as  if  he  had  told 
me  a  great  deal. 

Mr.  Cobb  drew  a  relieved  breath. 

"Well,  then,  he  ain't  told  you  much,  'cause  he 
don't  know  it  to  tell,  though  he's  near  plagued  the 
life  out  o'  me  to  find  out.  And  before  you  start  in 
a-doin'  the  same,  which  I  see  it  in  your  eye,  let  me 
tell  you  right  now  it  ain't  no  use.  I  expect  there's 
a  plenty  would  give  up  their  buzzom  secrets  to  you 
easy  enough,  but  they  warn't  married  to  the  late 
Mis'  Cobb.  That  woman,  Miss  Sally,  was  an  eddi- 
cation.  She  learned  me  so  thorough  to  keep  what 
I  knowed  to  myself,  by  never  restin'  a  minute  till 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        181 

she  got  it  out  and  then  never  restin'  from  throwin' 
it  up  at  me  afterwards,  that  there  ain't  no  female 
made  could  worm  out  o'  me  what  I  didn't  aim  to 
tell." 

"But,  Mr.  Cobb,"  I  persisted,  "remember  I'm 
Kit's  sister,  and  I  ought  to  know  the  kind  of  people 
he  makes  friends  with.  Please " 

He  waved  me  off  derisively. 

"Miss  Sally,  there  ain't  an  argument  you  can 
bring  for  why  you'd  ought  to  know  somethin'  what 
you  oughtn't,  that  I  ain't  heard  over'n  over  from 
the  late  Mis'  Cobb  before  you  was  born.  Supposin' 
you  don't  "know  what  you're  itchin'  to?  'Twon't 
take  the  curl  out  o'  your  hair,  will  it?  'Twon't 
bring  on  a  dry  year  or  nothin'  like  that?  You  jest 
run  along  and  write  to  your  beaux  and  leave  what 
you  ain't  no  business  with  be."  Turning  an  uncom 
promising  back  Air.  Cobb  departed. 

Kit  and  Mr.  Hackett  appeared  at  noon,  their 
creels  well  filled  with  glistening  brook-trout.  Or 
rather  Kit  and  the  trout  appeared,  Mr.  Hackett 
being  represented  merely  by  the  latter  and  his  com 
pliments.  Of  course  another  dinner  invitation  was 
in  order  and  Miss  Luppy  came  through  with  it 
handsomely,  sending  Kit  flying  down  to  the  Bo 
nanza  House  to  fetch  back  Mr.  Hackett.  The  meal 


182       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

passed  off  agreeably,  Miss  Luppy  sitting  rapt  by 
the  charms  of  Mr.  Hackett's  conversation,  yet  ever 
with  that  faint  air  of  doubt,  of  resistance  to  a  fas 
cination  felt  as  perilous.  In  Kit's  silence  I  saw  evi 
dence  of  a  bewildered  and  chaotic  state  of  mind. 
On  the  one  hand  was  the  fact,  patent  to  the  most 
casual  eye,  that  E.  Nestor  Hackett,  with  his  duster, 
his  whiskers  and  his  poetical  quotations,  was  absurd, 
and  unworthy  of  association  with  a  valued  friend 
of  Mr.  Cobb.  On  the  other  was  the  discovery  made 
in  the  course  of  the  day  that  in  the  company  of  t'nis 
absurd  person  he,  Kit,  had  a  strange  and  disconcert 
ing  habit  of  babbling  aloud  his  most  secret  thoughts, 
of  imparting  information  about  persons  and  cir 
cumstances  at  the  Flat  which  he  had  hardly  sus 
pected  himself  of  possessing.  To  Kit,  who  prided 
himself  on  being  of  a  self-contained  and  incom 
municative  turn,  this  was  little  short  of  humiliat 
ing,  especially  as  it  appeared  beyond  his  power  to 
remedy.  Mr.  Hackett  relieved  Kit  of  these  unwill 
ing  confidences  as  rapidly  and  neatly  as  he  whisked 
half-pounders  from  the  riffles.  And  yet  just  when 
you  had  begun  to  suspect  him  of  the  mastery  of 
some  absolutely  uncanny  art,  you  looked  again,  and 
the  whiskers,  the  owlish  spectacles,  the  limply  flap 
ping  duster,  the  whole  absurd  cut  of  him,  rose  up 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        183 

to  contradict  you.  It  was  bewildering,  like  seeing 
two  distinct  and  different  objects  occupying  the 
same  point  in  space  at  the  same  moment,  or  rather, 
shifting  characters  so  rapidly  that  you  were  never 
quite  certain  which  you  did  see.  Kit  even  owned 
to  being  made  a  little  seasick  by  these  kaleidoscopic 
views  of  Mr.  Hackett.  All  these  confessions  came 
later,  of  course;  just  now  I  had  to  judge  of  my 
brother's  state  of  mind  by  his  manner,  which  was 
dazed  and  subdued,  with  occasional  flashes  of 
pugnacity. 

A  week  went  by,  of  which  the  events  may  be 
briefly  summarized.  In  the  first  place,  our  acquain 
tance  with  Mr.  Hackett  progressed  so  rapidly  that 
it  bid  fair  to  ripen — with  or  without  our  consent — 
into  bosom  friendship.  He  sat  on  our  porch  and 
quoted  poetry,  he  came  into  the  kitchen  and  won 
Miss  Luppy's  unwilling  admiration  by  concocting 
salads  and  sauces  of  daring  and  exotic  flavors.  And 
he  led  the  dazed  and  glooming  Kit  about  as  though 
in  an  invisible  leash. 

On  Sunday  Joe  turned  up  and  admitted  having 
been  disagreeable  that  day  on  the  trail,  but  seemed 
still  disposed  to  cling  to  the  idea  that  Jimmie  Halli- 
day  and  his  uncle's  money  were  the  inevitable  doom 
of  a  girl  brought  up  to  take  the  pomps  and  vanities 


1 84       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

for  granted.  I  replied  that  while  Jimmie  was  some 
girl's  doom,  no  doubt,  she  would  have  only  herself 
to  blame  for  it,  because  no  amount  of  bringing  up, 
not  even  at  the  hands  of  Arabella,  could  make  you 
that  sort  of  person  against  your  will.  For  my  own 
part,  since  coming  to  the  Flat  Jimmie  and  his  world 
seemed  to  have  receded  to  antipodal  distances.  I 
pointed  out  that  it  was  precisely  Jimmie's  money 
that  was  the  matter;  he  might  have  been  at  least 
quite  harmless  and  nice  if  he  hadn't  had  any,  but 
that  it  had  come  down  on  him  like  an  extinguisher 
and  nipped  him  in  the  bud.  Which  sounded  mixed 
when  I  thought  it  over,  but  nevertheless  seemed  to 
convey  my  meaning  to  Joe  quite  well. 

It  was  on  this  Sunday  that  we  matured  a  plan 
we  had  discussed  before,  but  which  had  been  hang 
ing  fire  owing  to  the  difficulty  of  convincing  Miss 
Luppy  that  she  would  derive  enjoyment  from  leav 
ing  her  own  roof  and  going  forth  to  pass  the  night 
on  the  bosom  of  Mother  Earth.  That  night  in  the 
open  had  been  hovering  before  me  like  a  delightful 
mirage,  which  I  couldn't  believe  as  a  possibility. 
I  would  have  rejoiced  to  make  it  more  nights  than 
one,  but  on  that  point  Miss  Luppy  was  unpersuad 
able.  Neither  chickens  nor  cat  could  be  trusted 
longer  to  Asa  Cobb's  unsupervised  attentions, 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        185 

Besides,  Joe  couldn't  well  be  absent  longer  from  the 
dam.  But  to  ride  for  a  whole  day  farther  and 
farther  into  the  wonderland  of  the  Sierra,  to  sleep 
for  a  night  under  the  stars,  was  to  taste  at  least  of 
the  cup  of  adventure.  I  had  been  far  from  hopeful, 
Miss  Luppy  had  expressed  her  scorn  of  such  traips- 
ings-about  with  so  much  emphasis,  but  in  the  end 
she  capitulated  to  Joe's  persuasions.  It  was 
arranged  that  on  Friday  of  that  week  he  should 
come  down  from  the  dam,  that  we  might  get  an 
early  start  on  Saturday.  Our  destination  was  a 
lake  some  twenty  miles  back  in  the  mountains,  a 
place  little  known  or  visited,  and  accessible  only  by 
a  trail  which  in  the  beginning  was  that  very  trail 
over  Gantry's  Hill  which  led  by  Little  York.  And 
I  wondered  a  little  how  far  we  would  keep  com 
pany  with  the  horse-tracks,  whether  I  might  even 
discover  what  was  the  other  end  of  the  journey 
which  had  begun  under  the  cliff  in  the  mine. 

Mr.  Hackett  dropped  in  while  Joe  was  there,  and 
received  him  at  once  into  that  inner  circle  of 
intimacy  where  Miss  Luppy  and  Kit  and  I  so  sur 
prisingly  found  ourselves.  Joe  seemed  not  to  mind, 
for  his  blue  eyes  were  amused  and  friendly,  not  cold 
and  hard  as  on  the  day  he  met  Brett  Morgan. 
Later  when  he  said  good-by  at  the  gate  I  asked  him 


1 86       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

how  he  liked  the  agent  for  The  Farmer's  Friend. 
He  laughed. 

"Why,  first  rate!  Seems  a  very  decent  sort. 
Only — what's  he  doing  here,  Sally?" 

"Just  taking  a  vacation — fishing,  mostly,"  I 
explained,  opening  my  eyes  rather. 

He  laughed  again.  "Perhaps.  But  if  there  was 
anything  else  he  could  be  doing — I  admit  I  can't 
imagine  what,  myself — I'd  have  my  doubts. 
Whiskers  and  poetical  quotations  and  all,  he  dis 
tinctly  strikes  me  as  having  something  up  his 
sleeve." 

"But  what  on  earth  could  it  be?"  I  argued. 
"Unless  he  really  is  what  Asa  Cobb  calls  a  slickens 
man." 

"A  slickens  man?  What  breed  of  animal  is 
that?" 

"Don't  know — though  I  hoped  you  might.  But 
something  hig'hly  disagreeable  at  any  rate,  at  least 
to  Asa  Cobb." 

"Well,  you've  got  me,"  he  shrugged.  "It's  a 
nice  villainous-sounding  word,  though.  Probably  a 
survival  from  the  good  old  days  when  gold  and 
gore  were  both  so  plenty  at  the  Flat." 

"And  your  great-uncle  was  the  Leading  Citizen. 
Oh,  how  provoking  of  you  to  lose  that  letter,  Joe !" 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        187 

I  had  never  become  reconciled  to  the  disappearance 
of  that  much-adventured  letter. 

"How  provoking  of  it  to  have  got  lost,  you'd 
better  say,"  he  returned,  lightly  enough,  but  with 
an  undercurrent  of  seriousness  in  his  tone. 

"Well,  if  you  like.  Stupid,  too,  after  taking  the 
trouble  to  come  to  light  after  so  long.  It  might  as 
well  have  stayed  behind  the  shelf  in  the  post-office," 
I  complained. 

He  had  taken  my  hand  for  good-by,  and  he  held 
it  a  moment  before  he  answered. 

"Might  it  just  as  well,  Sally  ?  Because  it  brought 
me  to  California,  you  know." 

I  looked  up  and  met  his  eyes,  and  the  blood 
burned  suddenly  in  my  cheeks. 

"Might  it,  Sally?"  he  asked  again. 

What  was  it  made  me  falter  and  stumble  so  over 
my  reply  ?  I  think  it  was  the  dread,  never  far  from 
my  mind  when  Joe  was  there,  of  fierce  dark  eyes 
that  might  be  watching,  of  some  one  who  might 
meet  Joe  as  he  had  met  me,  but  with  intent  far 
different,  on  the  lonely  ridge-trail. 

"Of  course  I'm  glad  it  didn't,  Joe,"  I  said  faintly 
and  confusedly,  drawing  my  hand  from  his.  A 
shade  came  into  his  face.  He  gave  me  a  long  look 
with  eyes  from  which  the  warm  eager  light  had 


j.88        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

died,  and  abruptly  turned  and  swung  himself  into 
the  saddle. 

"We'll  see  you  on  Friday,  Joe  ?"  I  added  hastily, 
with  some  dim  unhappy  idea  of  making  him  under 
stand. 

"Of  course."  He  paused,  gazing  down  on  me  in 
an  uncertain,  puzzled  fashion.  But  I  found  noth 
ing  more  to  say,  and  he  dug  his  heel  into  the 
Grumpy-horse's  flank  and  rode  away. 

On  Wednesday  of  that  week,  which  was  stage- 
day,  I  went  to  the  post-office  for  the  mail,  Kit  hav 
ing  been  whisked  off  for  the  day  in  Mr.  Hackett's 
dingy  little  car.  As  I  went  down  the  street  to  the 
store  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  conscious  of  an 
unusual  stir  and  animation  among  the  sidewalk 
loungers.  Old  men  who  as  a  rule  passed  the  hours 
dozing  in  their  chairs  now  in  twos  and  threes  sat 
wagging  hoary  beards  in  talk  that  ceased  suddenly 
as  I  approached.  In  the  store  a  group  were  leaning 
on  the  counter  debating  some  matter  with  Young 
Sam,  who  wore  a  perturbed,  uneasy  air. 

As  I  entered  silence  fell.  I  went  to  the  post- 
office  window  and  Young  Sam  left  the  group  and 
passed  behind  the  partition.  While  he  fumbled 
with  the  mail  the  men  who  had  been  talking  to  him 
went  out,  leaving  us  alone — except  for  Little  Sam, 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        189 

who  had  fled  behind  a  pyramid  of  washboilers, 
whence  he  peered  forth  fatuously  smiling,  secure  in 
an  imaginary  invisibility. 

"Sammy  lit  out  again?"  inquired  his  father,  as 
he  sorted  the  letters  in  his  hand.  "Well,  I  kind  o' 
hoped  that  after  gittin'  on  so  well  at  the  dance  you 
and  him  would  go  on  bein'  friends.  You  ain't  to 
blame,  o'  course,  unless  mebbe  for  not  goin'  about 
it  as  smart  as  you  might  to  git  him  cornered.  If 
you  was  once  to  git  him  cornered,  now,  you'd  find 
Sammy  as  easy-managed  as  a  lamb.  Well,  here's 

your  mail.  And  by  the  way,  Miss  Sally" 

there  was  a  faint  but  perceptible  change  in  Young 

Sam's  easy-going  air "didn't  I  see  my  friend 

Kit  a-whizzin'  off  in  that  there  Hackett  party's  car 
this  mornin'?" 

I  explained  that  Kit  and  Mr.  Hackett  had  gone 
fishing. 

"Fishin'  ?  Huh !  That  Hackett  party  seems  real 
partial  to  it,  don't  he?"  Young  Sam's  tone  was 
charged  heavily  with  irony.  "Got  quite  thick  with 
all  you  folks  up  to  Miss  Luppy's,  too,  ain't  he  ?" 

"Oh,  I  think  Kit's  his  only  real  chum,  Mr. 
Davis !"  I  said,  laughing.  I  was  quite  aware  that 
in  his  clumsy  fashion  Young  Sam  was  looking  for 
an  opening,  that  he  wanted  very  much  to  draw  from 


190       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

me  all  I  knew  about  Mr.  Hackett.  That  was  little 
enough,  of  course,  yet  I  had  no  intention  of  impart 
ing  that  little.  I  nodded  and  turned  away  while  yet 
the  storekeeper  was  opening  his  mouth  to  proceed 
and  left  the  store,  followed  by  the  crash  of  the  wash- 
boilers,  which  Little  Sam  in  his  agitation  had  over 
thrown.  As  I  passed  along  the  street  I  realized 
again  and  still  more  strongly  that  there  was  some 
thing  in  the  air,  and  a  something  to  which  I  myself 
had  a  relation,  to  judge  from  the  suddenly  lowered 
voices,  the  silenced  speech,  that  greeted  my 
approach.  As  I  neared  Miss  Luppy's  gate  I  saw  a 
woman  coming  out  of  it.  It  was  Mrs.  Morgan, 
whose  visits  seemed  to  have  ceased  lately  altogether, 
though  Miss  Luppy  still  dropped  over  occasionally 
in  neighborly  fashion  to  the  small  shabby  house.  I 
would  have  stopped  to  speak,  remembering 
the  cause  I  had  to  thank  her,  but  she  passed  me  with 
a  nod  and  went  on  quickly  to  her  home.  As  I 
entered  the  house  Miss  Luppy  called  to  me.  I 
found  her  in  the  sitting-room.  On  the  table  stood 
a  basket  filled  with  dark  purple  plums,  which  I 
recognized  as  the  fruit  of  a  tree  which  grew  in  the 
Morgan  yard. 

Miss   Luppy   was    crocheting   lace,   the   favorite 
occupation  of  her  leisure  hours,  if  you  could  call 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        191 

them  such.  She  was  working  with  a  vigor  and 
rapidity  unusual  even  in  her,  and  there  was  an 
ominous  shadow  on  her  brow. 

"Look  here/'  she  said  peremptorily,  "when 
Hackett  and  the  boy  gets  back  I  want  you  to  let 
me  know.  Tell  Hackett  I  want  to  ask  him  some 
thing.  Understand  ?" 

I  said  I  understood,  and  went  out  into  the  gar 
den  to  await  the  anglers'  return.  Something 
was  in  the  wind,  that  was  clear;  even  Miss  Luppy 
didn't  usually  order  me  about  like  this.  It  was 
some  time  before  the  car  came  chugging  up  to  the 
gate,  where  I  stood  ready  to  deliver  my  message. 
Mr.  Hackett  received  it  benignly,  protesting  his 
readiness  to  oblige  Miss  Luppy  to  any  extent.  But 
he  looked  almost  as  astonished  as  I  felt  when  Miss 
Luppy,  in  her  Sunday  hat  and  with  the  black  cotton 
gloves  of  state  on  her  hands,  appeared  and 
announced  that  she  wished  to  be  taken  for  a  ride. 

"A  ride,  m'am?"  said  Mr.  Hackett,  staring,  but 
instantly  recovering  himself.  "Certainly,  with  all 
the  pleasure  in  life!  I  would  have  suggested  it 
before,  of  course,  but  for  your  expressing  an  unfav 
orable  opinion  of  self-propelled  vehicles  when  I  first 
had  the  pleasure  of  making  your  acquaintance/' 
Which  she  had,  emphatically. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"But  'tis  woman's  privilege  to  change  her  mind, 
and  may  it  always  be  a  change  for  the  better,  like 
yours  is  right  now.  So  get  in,  m'am,  and  you  too, 
of  course,  Miss  Sally." 

I  was  about  to  comply  when  Miss  Luppy  waved 
me  back. 

"No,"  she  said  firmly.  "Sally  got  broke  in  to 
ridin'  in  these  here  things  a  long  time  back,  and  I 
guess  I  don't  care  to  have  any  more  witnesses  than 
I  have  to  when  I  make  my  trial  trip.  Sally  and  the 
Boy  can  stay  to  home  and  keep  house." 

She  stepped  in  and  settled  herself  beside  Mr. 
Hackett.  Her  air  was  grimly  resolute,  her  spine 
more  than  usually  unbending.  Was  it  merely  that 
she  was  nerving  herself  for  the  trial  trip,  as  she  called 
it?  I  saw  Mr.  Hackett  turn  his  spectacles  on  her 
in  a  swift  inquiring  glance.  Then  he  gave  his  atten 
tion  to  the  wheel  and  the  road  ahead. 

"Any  preference  as  to  direction,  m'am?"  I  heard 
him  ask. 

"Make  for  the  stage-road  and  turn  down  toward 
Golconda,"  she  commanded  bruskly,  and  the  car 
started  down  the  street,  leaving  Kit  and  me  standing 
at  the  gate,  conveying  to  each  other  dumbly  by  our 
open  mouths  and  eyes  the  astonishment  we  felt  at 
this  extraordinary  proceeding. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        193 

Our  astonishment  was  not  lessened  when  after  a 
considerable  lapse  of  time  Miss  Luppy  returned — 
returned  alone,  on  foot,  and  looking  as  if  she  had 
had  a  long  and  dusty  walk.  To  our  excited  inquir 
ies  as  to  whether  there  had  been  an  accident  she 
returned  no  answer,  but  retired  to  her  room,  reap 
peared  shortly  in  a  fresh  gingham  gown,  and  set 
about  preparing  supper.  Kit  and  I  were  on  the 
dining-porch,  waiting  to  take  our  places,  and  afraid 
even  in  our  wonder  to  break  the  portentous  silence 
which  had  prevailed  since  Miss  Luppy's  return, 
when  a  step  heavier  than  her  own  sounded  in  the 
kitchen  and  we  heard  the  voice  of  Asa  Cobb. 

"Well,  m'am,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  queer 
chuckle  in  his  tone,  "you  sure  did  circumvent  'em 
this  time!  A  more  took  aback  lot  I  never  see.  I 
was  down  street  myself  and  saw  you  drive  past 
along  of  him,  and  yet  like  a  dummy  I  never  sus- 
picioned.  'Twarn't  till  you  come  trudgin'  back  up 
the  road  alone  that  it  took  hold  of  me  as  sudden  as 
if  some  one'd  grabbed  me  by  the  neck.  By  heck, 
thinks  I,  if  she  ain't  up  and  run  that  feller  out  o' 
town  on  her  own  hook!  Sent  him  off  with  a  flea 
in  his  ear,  by  gum,  and  left  the  boys  with  that  'ere 
nice  little  mess  o'  tar  and  feathers  on  their  hands! 
O'  course  them  that  see  you  comin'  up  street  made 


194        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

out  how  'twar  about's  soon  as  I  done,  though  none 
was  any  quicker' n  me  to  suspicion  when  they  seen 
you  start.  But  I  can  tell  you,  m'am,  if  you  hadn't 
'a'  be'n  with  him,  he  wouldn't  never  have  got  any 
further'n  the  Bonanza  House,  for  the  boys  had  their 
minds  all  made  up  to  the  job  they  was  goin'  to  do." 

"  'Twas  on  account  o'  knowin'  he  wouldn't  git 
no  further  by  himself  that  I  kep'  him  company, 
warn't  it?"  she  demanded  sharply.  "You  don't 
expect  'twas  for  pleasure  I  went  ridin'  with  the 
man,  let  alone  trampin'  two  mile'  up  the  road  in  the 
dust?  Well,  anyway,  he's  safe  off,  and  I  guess 
pretty  near  to  Golconda  by  this  time,  the  rate  he 
was  goin'  last  I  saw.  And  there's  a  passil  o'  loons 
in  this  town  that  had  ought  to  be  thankful  to  me 
for  keepin'  'em  from  makin'  fools  of  themselves, 
'stead  o'  blackguardin'  me  the  way  I  expect  they 
are  this  minute." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  remarked  Asa 
Cobb.  "I  guess  there's  a  good  many  plumb  glad 
it  turned  out  like  it  has.  Only  there's  some  will  be 
scratchin'  their  heads  pretty  hard  trying  to  guess 
how  in  time  you  found  out!" 

"Let  'em  scratch,"  said  Miss  Luppy  grimly.  "I 
don't  expect  there's  any  of  'em  will  come  right  out 
and  ask  me,  anyway." 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        195 

Through  the  open  door  I  saw  Mr.  Cobb  look  at 
her  keenly. 

"Well,  mebbe  there's  them  that  could  guess  with 
out  askin',"  he  said  significantly.  He  gestured 
toward  the  basket  of  purple  plums  on  the  kitchen 
table.  "Them  plums  from  the  Morgan  tree,  now, 
they're  real  tasty,  ain't  they,  m'am?"  He  gave 
himself  a  moment's  enjoyment  of  her  discomfiture. 
"Never  mind,"  he  resumed  hastily,  by  which  I 
inferred  that  Miss  Luppy,  whom  I  could  not  see, 
had  not  met  this  pleasantry  encouragingly,  "never 
mind,  there  won't  be  a  word  said.  You  and  me's 
old  neighbors,  and  so's  a  certain  other  party,  and  I 
guess  no  harm  ain't  comin'  to  her  through  us" 

"Asa  Cobb,"  said  Miss  Luppy  warmly,  "you 
come  right  along  and  set  down  to  table  with  us. 
We  ain't  got  but  a  light  supper  to-night — jest  cold 
ham  and  chicken  and  baked  macaroni-and-cheese 
and  hot  biscuit  and  preserves  and  them  plums  and 
blackberry  pie  with  cream  and  soft  cider  and  milk 
to  drink ;  but  if  you  can  make  out  with  that  you're 
kindly  welcome.  No,  it  won't  be  a  mite  o'  trouble. 
It's  a  real  pleasure  to  have  you,  Asa !" 

From  the  expression  on  Mr.  Cobb's  face  as  he 
sat  down  to  the  table  I  was  convinced  that  his  lips 
were  effectually  sealed. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AS  MISS  LUPPY  declined  all  explanation  and 
became  grim  and  forbidding  when  pressed  for 
one,  and  as  Kit,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  had  no 
better  success  with  Asa  Cobb,  we  had  to  make  what 
\ve  could  of  these  remarkable  events  for  ourselves. 
It  was  clear,  of  course,  that  there  had  been  a  well- 
developed  plan  on  foot  to  make  things  extremely 
unpleasant  for  Mr.  Hackett,  even  to  the  extent  of  a 
coat  of  tar  and  feathers;  that  the  scheme  was  to 
have  been  carried  out  that  very  night;  and  that 
somehow,  apparently  through  Mrs.  Morgan,  Miss 
Luppy  had  found  it  out  in  time  to  intervene.  On 
pretense  of  going  to  ride  with  him  she  had  got  him 
safely  through  the  village  and  far  enough  beyond 
it  to  be  out  of  reach  of  all  pursuers,  then  informed 
him  of  his  danger  and  left  him  to  complete  his 
flight  alone.  The  presumable  cause  of  Mr.  Hack- 
ett's  unpopularity  was  the  belief  that  he  was  a 
slickens  man,  but  in  my  ignorance  of  what  a  slick- 
ens  man  might  be  I  found  this  unenlightening. 

196 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       197 

That  Brett  Morgan  was  involved  in  the  conspiracy 
I  did  not  doubt;  it  was  Mrs.  Morgan  who  had 
warned  Miss  Luppy,  and  Miss  Luppy  did  not  wish 
it  known,  for  fear,  probably,  of  Brett's  displeasure. 
Uneasily  I  wondered  whether  Mr.  Hackett's  so 
opportune  appearance,  that  day  on  the  ridge,  had 
made  him  the  object  of  Morgan's  enmity.  If  so, 
I  could  only  rejoice  doubly  that  Miss  Luppy  had 
taken  matters  into  her  own  ..firm  hands  and  rescued 
E.  Nestor  Hackett,  whether  slickens  man  or  bona 
fide  agent  of  The  Farmer's  Friend,  from  the  danger 
that  impended. 

Friday  morning  Miss  Luppy  and  I  were  in  the 
attic,  collecting  bedding  for  the  trip  to  Eagle  Lake, 
when  I  became  aware  of  unusual  sounds  outside. 
Miss  Luppy  looked  round  sharply. 

"What's  that?"  she  asked.  "That  ain't  Hackett 
back  again,  is  it?" 

Something  like  the  hum  and  rumble  of  a  car 
there  certainly  had  been.  I  was  hastening  to  inves 
tigate,  when  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  I  met  Kit, 
breathless  and  round-eyed. 

"Say,  who  do  you  think  has  just  blown  in?"  he 
panted.  "Who  do  you  guess  is  down-stairs  waiting 
for  you  right  now?" 

"Mr.  Hackett?    Joe?" 


198       FpRTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"Say,  you're  a  rotten  guesser!  Nope!  Take 
another  try." 

I  think  some  prevision  of  the  appalling  truth 
came  to  me  even  then.  I  seized  Kit  and  shook  him 
violently.  "Tell  me!'*  I  hissed. 

"Leggo  first!"  I  let  go,  and  he  darted  to  a  safe 
distance.  "It's  Jimmie  Halliday!"  he  chortled, 
enjoying  himself  fiendishly.  "Say,  won't  he  and 
Joe  get  on  together  something  grand?  Say,  aren't 
you  glad  to  bid  him  welcome  to  our  city  ?" 

It  was  Jimmie,  sure  enough,  though  all  the  way 
down-stairs  I  had  hoped  against  hope  that  by  some 
special  miracle  it  would  turn  out  to  have  been  his 
mere  wraith  or  double,  which  would  have  vanished 
before  I  got  there.  But  it  was  Jimmie,  of  course, 
in  clothes  of  the  newest  cut,  plus  silk  shirt,  amazing 
tie,  and  hair  trained  with  prayer  and  fasting  to 
the  latest  chrysanthemum  effect. 

"Oh,  Jimmie,  how  nice  of  you  to  stop!  You're 
just  passing  through  to  somewhere,  I  suppose?"  I 
greeted  him  optimistically. 

"Passing  through?  Not  on  your  life!"  he 
assured  me,  clasping  my  hand  with  fervor.  "This 
is  where  I  get  off,  all  right!  Say,  Sally,  I  guess 
you  took  me  too  seriously  when  I  sent  back  your 
photo.  I  sure  was  peeved  for  fair  at  the  time,  but 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        199 

as  to  meaning  it  was  all  off — say,  you  didn't  take 
it  that  hard,  did  you,  Sally?  Well,  anyway,  here  I 
am  again,  all  ready  to  be  a  good  dog — roll  over  and 
play  dead  or  anything  you  say.  I've  got  my  car 
here,  and  I've  put  up  at  that  queer  little  joint  down 
the  street  they  call  the  Bonanza  House  or  some 
thing,  and  say,  we'll  have  some  good  time,  won't  we, 
Sally?" 

Why  hadn't  I  realized  a  year  ago  how  absurd, 
and  incongruous,  and  all  but  revolting  were  a  round 
smooth  face  and  a  dimpled  chin  and  a  peaches-and- 
cream  complexion  on  a  man — or  was  it  a  boy? 
Jimmie  was  precisely  at  the  stage  where  to  call  him 
either  left  a  lot  of  him  unexplained.  Where  was 
the  Sally  who  had  shared  the  general  view  that 
Jimmie  was  handsome,  and  admired  his  tight- 
waisted  coats  and  chrysanthemum  hair?  Extinct, 
dead,  buried,  and  this  Sally  was  an  entirely  new 
creature  who  had  risen  from  her  ashes.  But  the 
tragedy  of  it  was  that  Jimmie  couldn't  know  this, 
and  sat  beaming  on  the  horsehair  sofa  with  a  seren 
ity  quite  maddening  unless  you  saw  it  as  pathetic. 

"Say,  Sally,"  he  resumed,  "I  expected  to  find  you 
pretty  well  buried  alive  up  here,  but  honest,  I  never 
realized  what  you  were  up  against  till  I  struck  this 
hole  to-day.  Talk  about  the  backwoods — good 


200       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

night!  Say,  Sally,  how  in  the  world  have  you 
stood  it,  honest?" 

"I  like  it,"  I  said  coldly. 

"Like  it?"  He  stared,  then  laughed.  "Oh,  yes, 
starting  right  in  to  kid  me,  aren't  you?  You  like 
it  a  lot — just  about  as  much  as  I'm  expecting  to. 
All  the  same,  as  long  as  you  think  you  have  to  stick, 
why,  I  guess  I  can  too.  I  don't  mind  doing  it — 
sticking  round,  you  know — for  you,  Sally!" 

Sticking  round — of  course!  Sticking  was  Jim- 
mie's  long  suit.  He  would  stick  like  a  plaster  that 
won't  be  pulled  off  without  taking  your  skin  along 
with  it.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  feel  already 
the  raw  and  excoriated  surface  that  must  result 
from  Jimmie's  sticking. 

Well,  I  asked  him  to  dinner,  of  course.  You  do, 
when  a  caller  has  come  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  or 
so.  And  Miss  Luppy  glared  at  him,  and  he  insisted 
on  sharing  with  me,  by  signals  intelligible  to  all,  his 
conviction  that  she  was  quite  the  most  mirth-pro 
voking  object  that  had  met  his  experienced  eye. 
Afterward  we  returned  to  the  parlor — its  sepul- 
chralness  suited  my  mood  just  then — until  .  his 
remarks  on  its  various  adornments  in  the  way  of 
stuffed  birds  and  tidies  caused  me  to  take  him  out 
into  the  garden,  where  he  wouldn't,  perhaps,  insult 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        201 

the  flowers;  and  there  we  were  when  hoof-beats 
and  the  click  of  the  gate  announced  the  arrival  of 
Joe.  Ordinarily,  of  course,  I  should  have  run  out 
to  the  gate  at  once;  there  were  a  hundred  things  I 
wanted  to  ask  and  tell  about  the  projected  trip. 
But  now  I  sat  breathlessly  waiting,  while  Jimmie's 
words  fell  as  meaninglessly  on  my  ears  as  the  drip 
of  the  fountain,  until  I  heard  a  man's  firm  footfall 
coming  quickly  down  the  walk. 

Jimmie  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  honeysuckle 
arbor.  And  Jimmie  was  smoking — not  a  brier- 
wood  pipe,  but  a  silly  little  cigarette  from  a  mono- 
g rammed  gold  case.  Joe  came  round  the  corner  of 
the  arbor,  which  you  were  obliged  to  do  before  you 
could  see  who  was  in  it,  and  stopped.  For  the  space 
of  a  held  breath  he  stood  quite  still,  taking  in  Jim 
mie  and  me.  I  saw  his  face  change — age  and 
harden,  somehow — and  then  I  seemed  to  stand  out 
side  myself,  watching  the  automaton  that  was  I 
go  forward  with  outstretched  hand. 

He  took  it,  and  dropped  it  instantly.  His  eyes 
were  on  Jimmie. 

"This  is  Mr.  Halliday,  Mr.  Lambert,"  I  found 
myself  saying,  and  the  two  shook  hands,  Joe  with 
that  grim  quiet  which  had  come  upon  him  suddenly, 
Jimmie  with  ostentatious  heartiness.  He  had  taken 


202       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Joe  in  at  a  glance,  you  saw,  and  relegated  him  to 
the  pigeonhole  marked  Unimportant.  Even  to  me, 
the  contrast  of  Jimmie's  dazzling  presence  made  Joe 
seem  bulkier,  browner,  shabbier  in  his  worn  cordu 
roy  and  dingy  mountain  boots.  Jimmie  in  his 
tight-waisted  coat,  his  neat  oxfords,  his  silk  shirt, 
looked — in  his  own  eyes,  I  am  sure — a  perfect 
example  of  the  Man  About  Town  speaking  kindly 
to  an  uncouth  denizen  of  the  wilds.  For,  being 
good-natured,  he  made  his  manner  immensely 
encouraging  and  kind.  Joe's  manner,  I  regret  to 
say,  was  neither.  It  was  brusk,  it  was  gloomy,  it 
was  everything  that,  under  the  circumstances,  it 
should  not  have  been.  It  infuriated  me,  because  I 
knew  Jimmie  would  become  still  more  encouraging, 
believing,  naturally  enough,  that  this  yokel  was 
quelled  by  his  magnificence. 

"I've  been  telling  Mr.  Halliday  about  our  trip," 
I  said  desperately.  I  had,  but  in  such  fashion,  it 
afterward  transpired,  as  to  give  him  the  impression 
that  Miss  Luppy,  Kit,  and  I,  and  a  fellow  to  look 
after  the  horses  were  somewhat  unaccountably 
about  to  sally  forth  into  the  wilderness.  Because 
when  it  came  to  talking  of  Joe  to  Jimmie,  it  was 
somehow  so  difficut  that  I  nearly  suppressed  him 
altogether,  with  the  result  that  he  became  and  per- 


•    FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       203 

sistently  remained  a  wholly  subordinate  figure  in 
Jimmie's  mind. 

"Ah — you  still  think  of  going?"  remarked 
Joe  frigidly. 

"Naturally,  unless — other  people  would  prefer 
not/'  I  flung  at  him  with  indignant  emphasis. 
Because  really  he  was  being  too  disagreeable. 

"Oh,  she'll  go  all  right!"  interposed  Jimmie, 
blandly  proprietory.  "Of  course  it  would  suit  me 
better  if  she  gave  up  the  horseback  part  of  it — 
stringy  little  runts,  these  mountain  horses,  anyhow 
— and  let  me  take  her  somewhere  in  the  car — kid 
brother  and  the  Dragon  too,  of  course."  Jimmie, 
in  his  airy  way,  had  named  Lavinia  the  Dragon. 
"But  since  she's  set  on  going  horseback — so  she  can 
go  back  to  town  and  brag  of  it,  I  fancy — it's  all 
right.  I'll  go  along  too,  of  course." 

At  this  announcement  I  gasped  quite  audibly. 
But  Joe  did  not  even  look  at  me. 

"Ah — very  nice,  I'm  sure.  No,  thanks,  I  won't 

stop" this  with  an  air  which  included  me  as 

the  mere  appendage  of  Jimmie "there  are 

matters  I  have  to  arrange  with  Miss  Luppiy,  I 
imagine." 

Supper  that  evening  was  a  difficult  meal  for  me. 
Jimmie  stayed,  and  talked  airily  to  me  about  people 


204        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

and  things  in  town.  Town !  It  was  a  million  miles, 
a  million  eons,  away.  Had  I  ever  really  cared 
about  it,  and  the  sub-debutante  dances,  and  the 
doings  and  prattlings  and  little  make-believe  emo 
tions  of  people  like  Jimmie  ?  I  wondered  this  while 
I  gave  my  eyes  to  Jimmie  and  my  ears  to  what  the 
rest  were  saying.  Sitting  with  Jimmie  in  outer 
darkness  I  listened  avidly  to  their  talk — of  pack- 
saddles,  blankets,  frying-pans,  "grub,"  and  all  the 
delightful  paraphernalia  of  camping-out.  Now  and 
then  I  put  in  a  word,  at  which  Jimmie  looked  injured 
and  Miss  Luppy,  Joe  and  Kit  regarded  me  with  a 
distant,  bored  politeness,  as  if  this  were  no  affair  of 

mine  at  all.    I  belonged  with  Jimmie  and  his  world. 

their  manner  said;  why  try  to  mix  myself  with 

theirs? 

Bitterness  seized  on  me  at  last.     I  rose  from 

the  table  with  an  air  of  eagerness. 

"Come  on,  Jimmie,"  I  cried.     "I'm  going  to  take 

you  down  to  Sam  Davis  and  help  you  get  an  outfit. 

You  know  you  must  manage  to  look  as  much  as 

possible  like  a  Wild  West  show — to  match  the  rest 

of  us."    And  Jimmie  and  I  departed  joyously,  with 

every    appearance    of    intense    preoccupation    with 

each  other. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  morning  sun  shone  down  on  a  procession  of 
five  riders  and  a  pack-horse,  which  filed  down 
the  village  street  en  route  to  Eagle  Lake.  Kit  led 
the  van,  armed  to  his  own  great  satisfaction  with  a 
small  bird-gun  lent  by  Joe — from  which  Miss  Luppy 
had  unostentatiously  withdrawn  the  ammunition. 
Jimmie  followed,  on  a  hard-stepping  beast  which 
had  been  procured  for  him  at  the  last  moment 
through  the  exertions  of  Asa  Cobb.  Sam  Davis 
had  supplied  Jimmie  with  an  outfit  consisting  of 
blue  overalls,  check  shirt,  cowhide  boots  and  a  wide- 
brimmed  straw  hat.  The  effect  was  bizarre,  and 
Jimmie  evidently  felt  it  so.  He  had  a  wilted  look, 
and  sat  on  his  horse  as  if  he  had  dropped  on  it  by 
accident,  perhaps  out  of  a  Kansas  cyclone. 

Miss  Luppy's  riding-gear  was  unique  but  prac 
tical,  consisting  of  an  ancient  mackintosh  worn  over 
full  black  bloomers  gathered  at  the  ankle.  Thus 
attired  she  rode  her  dogged  little  pinto — hired  for 
the  occasion  of  Mr.  Davis — as  upright  as  a  dragoon 

205 


206       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

and  with  a  certain  angular  ease  reminiscent  of  her 
girlhood  on  a  farm. 

Joe  brought  up  the  rear,  pipe  in  mouth,  leading 
the  pack-horse,  which  looked  like  a  diminutive 
camel  with  a  disproportionate  hump. 

Early  as  it  was,  there  were  numerous  spectators 
of  our  progress  as  we  filed  through  the  village,  and 
I  sensed  an  amusedness,  a  scornful  jocularity  at  the 
doings  of  "city-folks"  which  made  me  glad  when 
we  had  left  Bandy's  Flat  behind.  We  were  a  rather 
silent  company  as  we  rode  through  the  white  glare 
of  the  mine  and  climbed  the  long  ascent  of  Gantry's 
Hill.  Even  the  loquacity  of  Jimmie  was  quenched 
by  the  necessity  of  adjusting  himself  to  Piker,  who 
possessed  a  backbone  impossible  to  ignore  and  a 
gait  in  which  each  leg  seemed  to  achieve  a  glorious 
independence  of  the  rest.  The  sun  was  high  and 
hot  when  we  reached  the  spring  beside  the  trail 
near  Little  York.  By  general  consent  we  paused, 
and  Joe  remarked — to  Miss  Luppy — that  she  might 
as  well  dismount  and  rest  a  bit,  for  the  pack  was 
slipping  and  required  attention.  Although  dis 
tinctly  not  included  in  the  suggestion  I  dismounted 
too,  and  we  seated  ourselves  in  the  shade  about  the 
spring.  Moved  by  the  appalling  silence — it  had 
grown  thick  and  stifling  as  a  London  fog — to  an 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       207 

unnatural  animation,  I  related  for  Jimmie's  benefit     * 
— very  pointedly  for  Jimmie's  benefit — the  history 
of  the  defunct  settlement  of  Little  York,  above  the 
site  of  which  the  bleached  column  of  the  dead  pine 
rose  like  a  white  shaft  above  a  grave. 

But  I  couldn't  go  on  talking  forever,  and  with 
the  ending  of  my  story  silence  fell  again,  so  blankly 
that  I  got  up  suddenly  and  proposed  to  Jimmie  that 
he  accompany  me  to  the  scene  of  the  last  lone  Little 
Yorker's  grisly  deed — which  I  had  described  with 
particularity  and  a  new  sympathy  with  persons  who 
chose  to  quit  a  world  so  after  all  unsatisfactory. 
We  strolled  away  together,  Jimmie  puffing  at  a 
cigarette  with  the  wearied  air  of  one  who  has 
drained  life  to  the  dregs — an  air  so  recently  adopted 
that  he  forgot  it  rather  often,  suffering  deplorable 
lapses  into  crude  and  juvenile  vivacity.  But  just 
now  he  was  all  the  weary  worldling,  and  when  we 
had  made  our  way  through  the  brush  to  the  little 
open  space  among  the  cabins  he  glanced  about  him 
in  a  bored  and  sated  fashion,  then  moved  on  down 
the  path  to  inspect  a  wood-rat's  nest  that  caught  his 
eye.  Not  liking  rats  of  any  kind  I  did  not  follow, 
but  lingered  in  the  little  path  before  the  threshold 
of  the  first  cabin  of  the  group.  Here  it  was  that 
Kit  and  I  had  found  the  stub  of  the  cigarette,  and 


208       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

with  the  recollection  the  whole  experience  of  that 
day  returned  upon  me  vividly.  How  strangely 
intense  it  had  been,  that  sense  that  I  was  watched — 
how  still  more  strange  it  was  that  not  the  memory 
but  the  very  feeling  itself  was  coming  over  me 
again — that  again  I  was  aware  of  eyes — eyes  that 
peered 

And  then  quite  suddenly  I  saw  them,  eyes  in  a 
face  that  stared  through  the  dim  dusty  glass  of  the 
cabin  window. 

The  blood  fled  back  sickeningly  to  my  heart.  I 
grew  cold,  and  the  landscape  reeled  round  me  drunk- 
enly.  Yet  the  cry  that  rose  to  my  lips  I  somehow  in 
stinctively  repressed  before  it  passed  them.  Then  the 
face,  which  had  melted  quickly  back  into  the  dark 
ness  of  the  cabin,  reappeared.  It  looked  at  me 
steadily,  and  my  terror  gave  way  to  an  astonish 
ment  almost  as  overwhelming.  A  finger  touched 
the  lips  significantly,  and  in  silent  assent  I  nodded. 
The  face  vanished,  and  Jimmie,  having  done  with 
the  wood-rat's  nest,  sauntered  toward  me.  Without 
speaking — I  was  quite  beyond  it — I  led  the  way 
through  the  brush  back  to  the  spring  where  our 
companions  waited. 

They  looked  up  at  our  approach — and  I  saw  in 
their  faces  that  my  own  had  betrayed  me.  Betrayed, 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        209 

at  least,  that  something  had  immensely  shaken  and 
upset  me.  Miss  Luppy  glanced  at  me  sharply, 
opened  her  lips  on  a  question,  then  significantly 
closed  them.  Joe  gave  me  a  quick  look  and  turned 
his  eyes  away.  It  remained  for  Kit,  with  fraternal 
candor,  to  remark : 

"Gee,  Sally  looks  like  she  might  have  met  the 
guy  that  cut  his  throat  down  there!  What's  up, 
Sis,  anyway?" 

Of  course  I  knew  what  Joe,  and  Miss  Luppy  too 
for  that  matter,  thought  was  up,  and  all  the  more 
because  at  Kit's  unlucky  question  the  color  came 
burning  to  my  cheeks.  Jimmie  and  I,  it  was  a 
reasonable  inference,  had  had  a  palpitating  love- 
scene  in  the  little  while  that  we  had  been  away,  and 
as  Jimmie  was  entirely  cheerful  the  outcome  of  the 
scene  might  also  be  inferred.  I  knew  that  in  the 
eyes  of  my  companions  I  was  as  good  as  engaged. 

As  I  got  into  my  saddle — unassisted,  for  Joe's 
broad  back  was  turned  uncompromisingly,  and 
Jimmie  was  having  troubles  of  his  own  with  Piker, 
who  disliked  being  ridden  and  took  nips  at  Jimmie' s 
calves — I  earnestly  wished  that  Mr.  Hackett  had 
not  seen  fit  to  turn  up  at  this  unlikely  place. 

For  it  was  E.  Nestor  Hackett  and  no  other  whom 
I  had  seen  at  the  window  of  the  cabin. 


2io        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

What  was  he  doing  there?  How  had  he  got 
there?  No  longer  ago  than  Wednesday  evening 
he  had  parted  from  Miss  Luppy  two  miles  below 
the  town  and  when  last  seen  by  her  had  been  mak 
ing  good  time  toward  Golconda.  Yet  this  morning 
he  was  peering  through  the  dusty  pane  of  a  deserted 
cabin  here  at  Little  York.  That  he  was  in  hiding 
was  clear;  I  knew  by  the  way  he  had  dodged  back 
from  the  pane  that  he  had  not  meant  me  to  see 
him,  and  by  the  finger  laid  to  his  lip  that  he  earn 
estly  entreated  silence.  And  to  silence  I  had,  I 
felt,  committed  myself  by  my  answering  gesture. 
I  had  not  forgotten  my  indebtedness  to  Mr.  Hackett 
for  his  well-timed  arrival  that  day  on  the  trail,  and 
it  was  now  borne  in  on  me  suddenly  that  it  was 
perhaps  well-timed  in  a  sense  that  I  hadn't  sus 
pected.  Suppose,  after  all,  Mr.  Hackett  had  not 
been  there  by  chance?  Suppose,  for  reasons  of  his 
own,  while  Brett  Morgan  had  been  following  me 
he  had  been  following  Brett  Morgan?  Was  it  then 
because  of  Brett  Morgan  that  he  was  hiding  in  the 
cabin  now?  But  why  look  for  Brett  Morgan  at 
Little  York?  And  what  did  he  want  of  Brett  Mor 
gan?  The  puzzle  of  it  seemed  hopeless,  but  what 
more  concerned  me  was  that  I  had  got  myself 
involved  in  it.  So  long  as  I  kept  the  promise  T  had 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       211 

given  Mr.  Hackett,  so  long  in  the  eyes  of  my  com 
panions  I  remained  engaged  to  Jimmie  Halliday. 
How  long  would  I  have  to  keep  it,  how  know 
when  the  need  of  keeping  it  was  past?  And  I  won 
dered,  while  the  vindictive  gaze  with  which  I  was 
stabbing  Jimmie's  unconscious  back  grew  somewhat 
blurred,  whether  I  must  live  a  spinster  all  my  days 
because  Mr.  E.  Nestor  Hackett  had  peered  for  an 
instant  through  the  window  of  the  cabin  at  Little 
York. 

On  and  on  wound  the  trail,  leaving  Gantry's 
Hill  behind,  descending  into  the  canons  of  swift 
bright  streams,  climbing  out  again  by  sinuous 
ascents  of  long  steep  slopes.  Through  dim  still 
woods,  through  meadows  gemmed  gorgeously  with 
flowers,  through  hot  stretches  of  chaparral,  we  rode 
on.  And  always  before  us  ran  the  track  of  horses,  in 
itself  no  extraordinary  phenomenon  on  a  mountain 
trail,  puzzling  to  me  only  because  of  its  beginning 
there  under  the  cliff  at  Bandy's.  And  just  now  I 
did  not  puzzle,  did  not  think  of  it  at  all.  As  the 
supposed  betrothed  of  Jimmie  Halliday  I  had  other 
food  for  thought. 

An  hour  beyond  the  midday  halt — a  dreadful 
interval,  pervaded,  in  my  recollection,  by  inextri 
cably  mingled  food  and  gloom — came  a  fork  in 


212       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

the  trail.  On  the  one  hand,  still  marked  by  the 
horse-tracks,  it  ran  on  through  the  forest,  a  straight 
tawny  line  athwart  the  green  of  the  bear-clover. 
On  the  other  it  turned  steeply  up  a  shadowy  defile, 
through  which  a  shouting,  tumbling  stream  came 
foaming  down.  This  was  Eagle  River,  which  we 
were  to  follow  to  its  source  in  Eagle  Lake.  We 
had  ridden  perhaps  a  mile,  on  a  trail  which  hung 
like  the  merest  thread  on  the  precipitous  canon 
wall,  when  our  progress  came  suddenly  to  an  end. 
For  here  the  trail,  compelled  by  the  beetling  out- 
thrust  of  a  cliff,  switched  to  the  farther  bank.  And 
the  half  of  a  split  pine  which  once  had  bridged  the 
stream  had  been  torn  from  its  place  by  some  wild 
spring  freshet  and  lay  with  one  end  pointing  sky 
ward  and  the  other  buried  under  green  roaring 
water. 

The  conclusion  was  so  obvious  that  it  hardly 
needed  Joe's  call  from  the  rear  of  the  cavalcade  to 
Kit  in  the  van  to  set  us  gingerly  turning  our  horses 
on  the  narrow  shelf  to  head  them  down  the  trail. 
Back  again  at  the  forks  by  general  consent  we 
halted. 

"Well,  it  looks  like  no  Eagle  Lake  for  us  this 
trip,  Miss  Luppy,"  remarked  Joe,  addressing  her 
to  the  complete  exclusion  of  the  rest,  and  with  an 


•    FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       213 

air  of  being  more  than  reconciled  to  this  abrupt 
termination  of  the  adventure. 

"Mebbe  it's  as  well,"  returned  Miss  Luppy 
grimly.  "It's  an  awful  deep  lake,  I  hear,  and  them 
that  jest  natcherally  ain't  got  sense  enough  not  to 
fall  in  would  mebbe  be  riskin'  val'able  lives  to  pull 
'em  out."  Her  bleak  eye  left  you  not  at  all  in  doubt 
of  the  person  indicated. 

"But  we're  not  going  home?"  exploded  Kit,  in  a 
sudden  roar  of  anguish.  Kit,  alone  of  all  the  party, 
had  been  profoundly  and  thoroughly  enjoying  him 
self.  He  had  wasted  no  worry  on  the  petty  frets 
and  disagreements  of  his  elders;  his  companions  on 
this  jaunt  were  Hawkeye  and  Uncas,  Tom  Sawyer 
and  Huck  Finn.  And  over  the  day  the  crowning 
glory  of  a  night  in  the  forest  had  spread  its  antici 
pated  magic. 

So  Kit  burst  out  in  protest  at  the  danger  he  felt 
in  the  air  to  his  cherished  dreams. 

But  the  protest  would  have  gone  unheeded,  had 
he  not  been  reinforced  just  then  by  an  altogether 
unintending  ally.  This  was  Jimmie,  who  com 
placently  announced  that  he  had  always  thought  the 
whole  affair  absurd,  which  it  was  now  quite  con 
clusively  shown  to  be.  Of  course  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  go  home. 


214       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"And  I'll  take  the  whole  crowd  somewhere  in  my 
car  to-morrow,"  he  magnificently  promised.  "Yes, 
the  whole  bunch,"  he  added  reassuringly,  as  realiz 
ing  there  were  those  present  who  could  hardly 
expect  to  be  included. 

That  settled  it,  of  course. 

"We  could  keep  on  along  this  other  trail  a  while 
and  camp  wherever  we  felt  inclined,"  said  Joe, 
still  addressing  Miss  Luppy,  and  without  seeming 
to  have  heard  Jimmie's  remarks  at  all. 

"Well,  it  would  kind  of  go  ag'in'  me  to  V  packed 
up  all  them  victuals  and  then  not  get  paid  anyway 
for  my  trouble,"  agreed  Miss  Luppy  at  once. 

And  Kit  with  a  joyous  whoop  wheeled  his  pony 
and  rode  on  again  into  the  mountains. 

On  and  on  through  beauty  ever  changing,  ever 
newly  beautiful  we  rode.  Now  through  forests 
deep  and  dim  and  greenly  cool  as  sea  depths,  now 
by  sunny  slopes  where  the  pines  grew  wide  apart, 
each  great  tawrny  bole  uprearing  in  a  separate 
majesty  and  washed  by  floods  of  yellow  light.  Now 
the  mountains  crowded  in  upon  us,  immuring  us  in 
solemn  dark  defiles,  now  from  some  sun-bathed 
crest  we  looked  out  on  other  crests,  green  near  by, 
purple  beyond,  and  still  beyond  snowy  and  gleam 
ing,  unspeakably  remote,  austere  and  awful.  But 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       215 

with  all  this  glory  my  heavy  heart  was  out  of  tune. 
Once  it  would  have  risen  exultantly,  till  my  delight 
burst  from  my  lips.  Now  I  didn't  even  second 
Miss  Luppy's  opinion  that  it  was  all  real  pretty- 
lookin'.  This  remark  was  almost  the  only  one  that 
broke  the  silence  of  our  progress.  Kit  was  silent 
with  the  silence  of  the  scout  who  sees  an  ambushed 
foe  in  every  thicket.  Jimmie's  had  a  quality  of 
melancholy  endurance — Piker  really  had  a  racking 
gait.  Miss  Luppy's  indicated  disapproval  of  several 
things,  particularly  of  me.  As  for  Joe's,  it  was 
monumental,  and  for  me  at  least  pervaded  every 
thing. 

Late  that  afternoon  we  came  again  to  a  fork  in 
the  trail.  Kit  halted  and  shouted  back  to  Joe,  who 
rode  forward. 

"Looks  like  a  toss-up  to  me,"  he  declared.  "I 
suspect  we  can't  go  far  wrong  whichever  way  we 
take." 

"Whoever' s  been  over  the  trail  lately  went  this 
way,"  Kit  pointed  out,  indicating  the  right-hand 
fork.  "Wonder  who  it  was  ?"  he  added. 

"Fellows  from  the  Flat,  most  likely,"  suggested 
Joe  indifferently. 

"Well,  there  hasn't  any  one  that  I've  heard  of 
been  up  this  way,"  said  Kit,  with  the  authority  of 


216       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

one  well  versed  in  local  gossip.  "Anyway,  what 
would  they  come  up  for?" 

"Then  I  suppose  they  were  from  Lone  Pine, 
after  deer  or  what  not,"  Joe  answered,  still  indiffer 
ently.  I,  who  knew  better  on  the  first  point  at  least, 
was  not  on  terms  with  Joe  to  permit  discussion  of 
it.  Besides,  what  did  it  matter,  what  did  anything 
matter,  except  the  blight  that  had  fallen  on  the  day 
which  was  to  have  been  so  happy? 

"Whoever  went  in  may  be  around  here  still, 
though/'  Joe  went  on,  "so  I  suspect  we  may  as  well 
not  take  chances  on  getting  mixed  up  with  another 
camp.  Let's  turn  off  to  the  left." 

To  the  left,  then,  we  turned  off,  through  a 
shallow  notch  or  trough  in  the  ridge  we  had  been 
following.  It  brought  us  out  presently  into  an 
extensive  flat,  filled  at  this  end,  except  for  one  or 
two  small  meadow-patches,  with  a  thick  wood  of 
second-growth  pine  and  spruce.  To  the  right  the 
flat  stretched  away  for  a  mile  or  more,  the  dark  of 
the  timber  giving  place  finally  to  another  larger 
stretch  of  meadow-grass. 

"I  suspect  the  other  trail  conies  in  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  flat,"  said  Joe,  nodding  toward  it. 
"Well,  it  looks  as  if  we  might  strike  pretty  good 
camping  right  below  here.  Hit  the  trail,  son." 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       217 

And  Kit,  in  his  proud  role  of  leader,  hit  it. 

How  I  should  have  loved  it,  once,  all  that  bustle 
of  making  camp  there  at  the  edge  of  the  little 
meadow !  How  I  should  have  enjoyed  the  spectacle 
of  Miss  Luppy,  who  all  day  had  sat  up  stiff  and 
grim  on  horseback,  still  sitting  there  when  the  day's 
long  trek  was  done,  because  unable  to  do  otherwise, 
and  only  brought  down  at  last  by  main  force  of 
Joe  and  gravity!  Jimmie,  .though  quite  equally  in 
need  of  aid,  didn't  get  it,  and  had  to  clamber  down 
alone,  smothering  moans,  and  treating  himself  very 
gently,  as  though  a  sudden  jar  might  crack  him. 
Very,  very  gently  he  sat  down,  and  very  soft  and 
mossy  was  the  spot  he  chose  to  sit  on.  Joe  and 
Kit  and  I  took  the  saddles  from  the  horses  and  with 
slaps  at  their  sweaty  sides  sent  them  to  roll  blissfully 
in  the  cool  lush  grass.  And  Miss  Luppy,  having  by 
sheer  force  of  character  recovered  her  motility,  took 
command  of  everything  and  everybody  as  by  inborn 
and  inalienable  right,  which  she  would  have  done 
with  equal  certainty  had  she  just  been  washed  up,  a 
castaway,  on  the  shores  of  a  desert  island. 

Very  soon  camp  was  made,  the  firewood  piled  in 
readiness  for  use,  spruce  boughs  cut  for  beds,  the 
butter  set  to  cool  in  the  spring  that  bubbled  up  at  the 
meadow's  edge,  and  Miss  Luppy  had  sat  down  to 


218       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

her  crocheting  as  tranquilly  as  though  the  walls  of 
her  own  sitting-room,  instead  of  the  shades  of  a 
Sierra  forest,  had  enclosed  her.  Joe  and  Kit  went 
off  to  fish,  Jimmie,  after  feebly  feigning  a  desire 
to  take  a  stroll  with  me,  lay  down  on  his  blankets 
and  fell  asleep,  and  I  was  left  to  entertain  myself. 
Again  how  different  from  all  that  I  had  dreamed! 
But  to  escape  from  the  censorious,  if  silent,  presence 
of  Miss  Luppy,  and  still  more  from  that  of  Jimmie 
when  he  should  awaken,  I  slipped  from  camp  and 
took  the  trail  which  went  on  through  the  wood 
toward  the  lower  end  of  the  flat. 

It  was  much  denser,  this  young  wood,  than  the 
ancient  forest  from  which  the  weaklings  have  long 
since  been  crowded  out.  Almost  at  once  I  lost  sight 
of  camp  and  the  silent  upright  figure  of  Miss 
Luppy,  and  was  alone  in  a  shadowy  green  stillness 
which  fell  soothingly  on  my  vexed  spirit.  Only  the 
soft  babble  of  an  unseen  stream  accompanied  me, 
like  the  voice  of  the  wood-spirit  singing  to  itself.  I 
wandered  on,  until  the  wood  ahead  grew  lighter, 
and  presently  I  had  emerged  from  it  into  the  wide 
meadow  we  had  seen  from  far  off.  I  suppose  that 
like  other  green  Sierra  meadows  it  had  once  in 
remote  ages  been  a  lake,  and  the  forest  halted  at 
its  margin  as  though  it  were  still  a  strip  of  glistening 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       219 

sand  dividing  the  wood  from  the  softly  rippling 
water. 

Rather  hesitatingly  I  looked  about  me,  half 
expecting  to  see  horses  grazing  in  the  meadow  and 
signs  somewhere  of  a  camp.  But  the  wide  green 
stretch  was  deserted ;  neither  man  nor  beast  was  vis 
ible  on  its  sunny,  quiet  expanse.  At  the  edge  of  the 
timber,  a  little  way  from  where  I  stood,  was  a  small 
cabin.  Taking  courage  from  the  forsaken  look  of 
things  I  strolled  toward  it.  It  looked  weather- 
beaten  and  dilapidated,  and  the  shakes  that  covered 
its  log  frame  were  gray  with  age.  Probably  it  dated 
from  the  time,  as  many  years  ago  as  the  young 
forest  was  old,  when  the  virgin  timber  had  been  cut. 
The  floor  of  the  cabin  was  raised  a  foot  or 
two,  bringing  the  sill  of  the  unglazed  window 
above  my  head.  That  it  was  unglazed  somehow 
gave  me  courage;  no  eyes  could  peer  at  me  here 
through  dusty  glass!  And  the  whole  place  was 
open  and  sunny  and  cheerful,  not  shut  in  by  chapar 
ral  and  trees  like  the  cabins  at  Little  York.  Besides, 
I  was  unhappy,  and  unhappiness  has  a  queer  way 
of  making  you  forget  timidity.  Prompted  by  the 
vaguely  melancholy  interest  which  surrounds  for 
saken  habitations  I  stepped  upon  the  squared  log 
which  formed  the  step  and  pushed  open  the  door. 


220        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

At  once  I  uttered  a  quickly  stifled  exclamation. 
For  the  cabin  was  inhabited.  Not  the  inhabitant, 
indeed,  but  his  various  possessions  were  there  to 
prove  it — provisions  ranged  on  a  shelf,  tin  dishes 
on  the  table,  a  kettle  on  the  rusty  little  stove.  There 
was  even  a  vest  hanging  on  a  nail  and  a  pair  of 
worn  old  shoes  standing  by  the  bunk,  in  which  lay 
a  huddle  of  gray  blankets. 

Without  delay  I  pulled  to  the  door  and  made  like 
a  frightened  wild  thing  for  the  cover  of  the  wood. 
Whoever  the  recluse  might  be,  or  rather  until  I 
knew,  I  had  no  wish  for  a  solitary  encounter  with 
him  here.  But  in  the  shelter  of  the  trees  I  felt 
safer,  until  taking  a  few  cautious  steps  I  found 
myself  in  a  path  with  another  building  of  some  kind 
at  the  end  of  it.  This  startled  me  afresh,  as  sug 
gesting  other  dubious  inhabitants.  Nevertheless  I 
went  a  little  way  along  the  path,  which  proved  to 
lead  to  a  building  larger  than  the  cabin  in  the 
meadow,  and  which  might  have  been  a  small  bunk- 
house.  It  was  half-ruinous  now,  with  sagging  roof 
and  brush  growing  thickly  about  its  wralls.  The 
door  to  which  the  path  led  was  closed. 

Still  cautiously,  with  an  eye  out  for  the  unknown 
solitary,  I  made  my  way  through  the  wood  till  T 
struck  the  trail  once  more.  But  before  I  returned 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       221 

to  camp  a  half-fearful  curiosity  drove  me  to  take  a 
last  look  at  the  cabin.  It  was  nearly  sundown — 
wouldn't  the  hermit  be  coming  home?  He  was. 
Across  the  meadow  long  level  rays  of  light  were 
washing.  They  revealed,  among  the  cliffs  which 
walled  it  in  upon  the  east,  the  narrow  mouth  of  a 
defile.  From  it  was  issuing  a  string  of  horses — 
four,  I  counted — of  which  the  first  bore  a  rider  and 
the  others  empty  pack-saddles.  They  crossed  the 
meadow,  moving  like  tired  creatures  that  had  seen 
hard  traveling,  and  halted  before  the  cabin.  The 
rider  dismounted,  stretched  himself  wearily,  and  set 
about  unsaddling  his  horse.  He  was  a  man  of 
middle  height,  gaunt  and  rather  stiff  of  move 
ment,  and  dressed  in  the  usual  mountain  fashion, 
which  all  but  invariably  includes,  at  least  with  the 
older  men,  a  vest  hanging  unbuttoned  over  a  dingy 
colored  shirt.  Having  lifted  the  saddle  from  his 
horse  he  turned  to  fling  it  on  the  ground.  The 
move  brought  him  round  until  he  faced  me,  and 
what  I  had  already  with  astonishment  suspected 
proved  to  be  the  truth.  It  was  Eben  Gregg. 


CHAPTER  XV 

»S  I  WENT  slowly  back  to  camp  I  tried  in  vain 
^l^s  to  fathom  the  exact  significance  of  this  discov 
ery.  Were  these  the  horses  that  had  waited  under 
the  cliff  at  Bandy's?  What  was  the  freight  they 
had  carried  thence  all  the  long  way  to  this  cabin 
and  on  beyond — for  if  they  had  come  down  the  trail 
just  now  with  empty  pack-saddles  they  had  doubt 
less  ascended  it  with  full  ones?  What  was  their 
destination  up  there  in  the  wilderness,  where  there 
was  nothing  at  all  but  forest  and  snow  and  solitary 
peaks  until  you  dropped  down  again  into  Nevada? 
And  where  did  Mr.  Hackett,  lurking  there  at  Little 
York  upon  the  line  of  march,  come  in — if  indeed 
he  came  in  anywhere  and  didn't  constitute  an 
entirely  separate  puzzle?  Was  there  really  some 
extraordinary,  unimaginable  connection  between 
these  things  ?  It  was  as  though,  stumbling  along  in 
the  dark,  I  felt  now  and  again  within  my  grasp  an 
invisible,  tenuous  thread  which  would  guide  met 
could  I  only  follow  it,  to  an  end  I  immensely  wanted 

222 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       223 

to  reach.  Yes,  immensely,  for  the  urge  I  felt  was 
beyond  mere  curiosity;  obscurely,  inexplicably,  the 
conviction  stirred  in  me  that  something  which 
mattered  a  great  deal,  mattered  somehow  even  to 
me,  was  here  involved.  How,  I  didn't  know,  for 
when  I  tried  to  grasp  it  the  shadowdy  something 
slipped  through  my  fingers  and  was  gone.  Yet  in  a 
moment  there  it  was  again,  teasing  and  elusive, 
hovering  on  the  periphery  of  consciousness  like  a 
ghost  that  couldn't  bear  the  light. 

When  I  reached  camp — where  I  strolled  in  with 
an  elaborate  air  of  unconcern — the  fire  was  blazing 
and  supper  under  way.  No  one  had  anything  to 
say  about  my  absence  except  Jimmie,  who  had  wak 
ened  quite  refreshed  and  was  reproachful  because  I 
had  gone  for  a  walk  without  him.  He  said  he  had 
just  lain  down  a  moment  with  his  hat  over  his  eyes 
on  account  of  the  sun  to  wait  till  I  was  ready,  and 
when  he  looked  round  I  was  gone.  I  said  naturally, 
when  he  hadn't  looked  round  for  an  hour  or  so,  on 
which  he  was  seized  with  that  bitterness  of  indigna 
tion  customary  with  persons  accused  to  taking  naps, 
and  wanted  to  prove  by  Miss  Luppy  that  he  had  sat 
up  and  said  "Where's  Sally?"  within  five  minutes 
of  my  departure. 

"As  to  the  settin'  up  I  can't  say,"  replied  Miss 


224       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Luppy  when  appealed  to  by  Jimmie  in  his  rashness, 
"account  of  my  back  bein'  to  you.  As  to  what  you 
said,  all  I  heard  from  you  sounded  to  me  like  jest 
plain  snorin',  and  if  'twas  otherwise,  why  I  guess 
I'm  growin*  a  mite  deaf.  'Cause  I  remember  of 
thinkin'  to  myself  it  warn't  often  you  heard  a  young 
person  doin'  it  that  loud  and  long,  like  a  pig  that's 
et  too  much  and  got  kind  o'  short-winded  after 
wards." 

This  disposed  of  Jimmie  and  also  of  my  faint 
hope  that  a  truce  might  be  declared  for  this  my 
first  evening  by  a  camp-fire.  On  the  contrary,  I 
found  myself  set  apart  with  Jimmie  as  an  outsider 
and  a  tenderfoot,  rebuffed  by  Miss  Luppy  when  I 
tried  to  help  with  supper,  and  alienated  even  from 
my  own  brother,  who  approved  of  Joe,  not  of 
course  as  rivaling  the  unique  merits  of  Asa  Cobb, 
but  still  as  a  not  unworthy  comrade  for  Asa  Cobb's 
admirer.  Joe  having  apparently  cast  off  the  obses 
sion  which  had  made  a  mere  girl  important  in  his 
eyes,  Kit  likewise  frankly  abandoned  me  and 
attached  himself  to  Joe  as  squire  and  understudy, 
tagging  him  about  and  imitating  his  every  move, 
leaping  to  execute  an  order,  zealous  with  unasked 
aid,  and  condescending  to  me  as  to  a  person  at  last 
properly  put  in  her  place— and  to  be  kept  there. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       225 

Well,  I  had  one  comfort  in  all  this,  and  I  hugged  it 
close  to  my  sore  heart — I  knew,  and  Kit  didn't,  the 
whereabouts  of  the  missing  Eben  Gregg.  What 
wouldn't  he  have  given  to  know  it — what  would  he 
say  when,  home  again  at  Bandy's  Flat,  I  took  my 
revenge  by  imparting  the  belated  information!  It 
was  true  I  would  much  have  preferred  to  impart  it 
now,  to  know  what  Joe  would  think  of  the  whole 
queer  business,  to  seize  perhaps  this  chance  of 
sifting  it  to  the  very  bottom.  But  not  from  me, 
snubbed  and  relegated  to  companionship  with  Jim- 
mie,  should  they  hear  of  my  afternoon's  adventure. 
As  to  my  experience  of  the  morning,  even  could  I 
have  felt  free  of  my  vow  of  silence,  I  was  too  embit 
tered  to  vouchsafe  so  much  of  an  explanation  to 
those  who  should  have  trusted  me  without  it.  No, 
they  should  know  nothing,  nothing  at  all  from  me, 
and  then  whatever  the  developments,  whatever  it 
might  all  turn  out  to  mean,  I  would  at  least  enjoy 
the  superiority  of  my  foreknowledge.  And  if  they 
marveled  at  my  silence,  well,  there  were  a  dozen 
ways  in  which  I  might  remind  them  of  the  reason — 
So  I  brooded,  while  Miss  Luppy  and  Joe  cooked 
supper,  and  Kit  brought  in  vast  stores  of  wood,  and 
Jimmie  and  I  sat  around  in  dreary  idleness.  Oh, 
how  I  wanted  a  share  in  the  delightful  play  work 


226       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

of  the  camp !  I  wanted  to  help  with  the  frying-pan 
bread,  and  to  turn  those  sizzling  little  trout — I 
shouldn't  have  got  all  red  and  boiled-looking  like 
Miss  Luppy  now.  And  I  wanted  all  the  laughter, 
and  the  petting,  and  the  happiness  that  were  to  have 

been  mine  to-night 

All  this  being  denied  me,  I  took  the  only  course 
my  pride  left  open.  They  shouldn't  have  offered 
them,  at  least,  the  spectacle  of  a  sad  and  chastened 
Sally  sitting  meekly  by  accepting  punishment! 
And  presently  Jimmie  and  I,  cozily  established  with 
our  backs  against  a  log  to  windward  of  the  fire, 
were  so  gay  that  Miss  Luppy  cast  blighting  looks 
our  way,  and  hard  lines  began  to  show  about  Joe's 
mouth — I  hadn't  dreamed  it  could  look  so  hard!  I 
had  leisure  for  noting  these  effects,  for  it  was 
extremely  easy  to  converse  with  Jimmie.  You  had 
only  to  wind  him  up  and  stSrt  him,  so  to  speak.  If 
he  showed  symptoms  of  running  down,  you  joggled 
him  slightly  and  he  went  again.  The  most 
efficacious  joggle  was,  simply,  to  offer  him  Jimmie 
as  a  theme.  This  kept  him  going  like  some  magic 
lubricating  oil.  Meanwhile  I  wondered  whom  I 
should  pick  out,  finally,  to  take  him  off  my  hands. 
I  began  running  over  the  possibilities  in  my  mind — 
of  course  I  intended  to  be  conscientious  and  not 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       227 

hand  him  over  to  just  anybody.  No,  I  would  live 
up  to  my  responsibilities  and  see  that  I  passed  Jim- 
mie  on,  a  wiser  if  not  a  sadder  boy,  to  exactly  the 
right  person  to  take  charge  of  him  and  his  Uncle 
Jim's  money.  As  for  myself  I  thought  I  would 
probably  go  in  for  relief  work  in  Armenia,  where  I 
should  have  my  throat  cut  by  a  Turk  or  else  die  of 
something  catching  very  soon. 

But  if  there  was  one  Sally  very  busy  being  gay 
and  entertaining  Jimmie  and  letting  people  see  that 
she  didn't  in  the  least  mind  their  rudeness,  there 
was  another  who  found  her  own  secret  bliss  in  the 
beauty  and  wonder  all  about  her.  How  lovely,  how 
mysterious,  how  awesome  it  was  there  in  the  woods 
as  twilight  began  to  fall !  To  creep  up  on  us,  rather, 
a  silent  tide  of  shadow,  from  beneath  the  still  and 
solemn  pines.  Birds  and  squirrels,  after  much  noisy 
chattering,  went  to  bed.  Pale  moths  began  to  slide 
through  the  air  silently  as  dreams.  How  the 
crackle  of  the  fire,  the  clear  ascending  flame,  the 
fragrance  of  the  wood-smoke,  stirred  in  one  a 
vague,  deep  something,  perhaps  an  old,  old  ancestral 
memory  of  the  time  when  the  folk  from  whom  we 
come  built  fires  like  this  in  the  open,  before  they 
had  got  them  a  roof-tree  and  a  home. 

After  supper  we  sat  a  while  about  the  fire,  and 


228       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Jimmie  discoursed  of  Santa  Barbara  where  both  his 
mother  and  Arabella  were  at  present,  and  where 
he  would  have  been  but  for  me,  and  where 
I  ought  in  reason  to  have  been — he  was  very  ex 
plicit  about  this — and  should  have  been  but  for  the 
freak  which  had  taken  me  up  here.  And  he  was 
extremely  humorous  and  patronizing — quite  ami 
ably,  of  course — about  the  Flat,  and  this  extraor 
dinary  aimless  trip  of  ours,  and  the  deplorable  want 

of  jazz  about  it  all 

The  fire  waned  and  Kit  wanted  to  build  it  up  and 
Joe  wouldn't  let  him,  but  knocked  the  ashes  from 
his  pipe  and  rose  abruptly,  saying  it  was  bedtime. 
And  I  thanked  him  in  my  heart,  because  it  would 
have  been  too  bad,  after  playing  up  so  well,  to  have 
spoiled  it  all  by  a  burst  of  sudden  weeping.  Miss 
Luppy  and  I  had  spread  our  beds  in  a  little  circle 
of  young  pines,  not  too  far  from  the  comfort  of 
the  fire's  red  winking  eye,  or  from  the  hope  of 
rescue  in  case  the  "critter"  whose  arrival  Miss 
Luppy  now  began  to  anticipate  should  give  us  his 
undesired  society.  Thither  we  retired,  and  in  a  si 
lence  eloquent  of  mutual  disapproval — I  really  was 
hating  her  rather  hard — performed  the  extremely 
brief  ceremonial  of  going  to  bed  in  camp.  Most  of 
it  is  taking  off  your  shoes.  She  then  gave  me  a 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       229 

grudging  "Well,  good  night,  Sally,"  which  sounded 
like  an  exhortation  to  repent  before  a  righteous 
vengeance — in  the  shape  of  the  critter,  probably — 
should  overtake  me,  and  disposed  herself,  with 
creaks  and  rustlings,  on  her  bed  of  fragrant  green 
ery.  And  I  reflected  thankfully  that  the  day  was 
over,  and  the  merciful  dark  around  me,  and  that  I 
needn't  smile  any  more 

I  did  not  sleep  at  once,  but  lay  pillowed  on  my 
saddle,  watching  the  fire  burn  out  till  only  a  red 
spark  remained.  Miss  Luppy,  oblivious  of  the 
critter,  slumbered.  The  night  was  still  and  wind 
less,  and  except  for  the  soft  bubbling  of  the  spring 
and  the  remoter  murmur  of  the  stream  infinitely 
silent.  Darkness  flooded  over  the  forest  like  a  sea. 

Then  somewhere  in  the  pines  an  owl  hooted. 
From  far  off  came  a  dreary  wailing  cry,  perhaps 
the  hunting  note  of  a  coyote.  I  turned  on  my  bed, 
and  the  essential  Me,  satisfied  that  it  left  its  body 
comfortable  and  safe,  began  to  slip  its  moorings  for 
its  dark  nightly  voyage  into  the  unknown. 

And  with  my  last  drowsy  speculations  about  Eben 
Gregg  and  what  he  was  doing  up  here  in  the  cabin 
was  mingled  the  reflection  that  Joe  had  not  spoken 
to  me  once  all  day. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

I  WAKENED  suddenly  and  with  a  startled  sense 
that  some  sound,  some  call,  had  roused  me.  I 
sat  up  in  my  blankets,  my  heart  beating  quickly, 
every  nerve  keyed  to  an  intensity  of  listening.  The 
darkness  on  which  I  had  closed  my  eyes  had  given 
place  to  a  thin  gray  twilight,  and  the  air  was  sharp 
as  frost.  The  hush  of  the  dim  woods  had  an  om 
inous,  expectant  quality,  as  though  at  any  moment 
some  strange  and  fatal  secret  might  be  whispered 
on  the  silence.  No  one  stirred  about  the  camp; 
Miss  Luppy  lay  slumbering  profoundly,  and  by 
leaning  a  little  forward  I  could  see  the  still,  recum 
bent  forms  of  the  men.  What  had  roused  me  ?  A 
far-off  cry,  or  a  prowling  footstep  close  at  hand? 
Then  as  I  sat  wondering  and  listening  it  came 
again — a  thin,  faint  note,  very  distant,  yet  unmis 
takably  conveying  to  my  sharpened  ears  the  sugges 
tion  of  a  human  whistle,  that  shrill,  far-carrying 
sound  only  to  be  achieved  by  laying  the  fingers  to 
the  lips,  and  by  woman  not  to  be  achieved  at  all  - 

230 


•    FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       231 

It  was  so  very  faint  and  distant  that  even  then  I 
spared  a  thought  to  wonder  that  it  had  aroused  me. 
I  had  fallen  asleep,  no  doubt,  unconsciously  alert  for 
some  such  thing,  with  that  profounder  self  which 
does  not  sleep  vigilant  for  the  least  signal  that 
events  were  moving.  It  had  warned  and  wakened 
me,  and  I  did  not  hesitate.  With  a  watchful  eye 
on  Miss  Luppy,  I  pulled  on  and  hurriedly  laced  my 
boots,  shook  my  rumpled  garments  into  order,  and 
slipped  softly  away  among  the  trees.  Once  clear  of 
the  camp  I  skimmed  breathlessly  along  the  trail. 
That  whistle,  if  I  hadn't  dreamed  it — as  I  half 
doubted  still — meant  an  arrival  from  somewhere  at 
the  cabin  in  the  meadow.  While  we  slept  some  one 
had  been  riding  over  the  mountains  in  the  dark,  on 
some  errand  utterly  beyond  my  guessing,  to  meet 
Eben  Gregg  in  his  hermitage.  Who  it  was  and 
what  he  did  there  I  intended  to  find  out — it  would 
take  the  wind  out  of  Kit's  sails  a  little,  anyway !  I 
felt  no  fear  of  the  dim  still  woods;  curiosity  lured 
me  too  strongly,  besides  the  anticipated  glory  of  a 
return  to  camp  after  the  achieving  of  my  solitary 
adventure.  If  only  they  didn't  wake  too  soon  and 
miss  me — but  I  had  artfully  huddled  my  blankets 
together  and  left  my  worsted  tarn — my  nightcap,  if 
you  please — sticking  out  at  the  top,  so  that  for  a 


232        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

little  while  at  least  Miss  Ltippy  would  fancy  me 
still  sleeping.  I  was  nearing  the  end  of  the  wood 
trail  now — I  was  at  the  very  brink,  perhaps,  of 
discovering  what  Eben  Gregg  was  doing  in  the 
cabin  and  who  it  was  that  came  to  meet  him 
there.  Came  sounds  from  the  meadow — hoofs 
trampling,  the  whinny  of  a  horse,  voices  speaking 
together.  I  tiptoed  forward  holding  my  breath, 
crept  from  the  trail  into  a  clump  of  young  firs,  and 
cautiously  put  aside  the  low-growing  boughs.  The 
meadow  was  before  me,  faintly  glistening  in  the 
pearly  dawn-light. 

Again  a  riding-horse  and  three  pack-horses 
stood  before  the  cabin.  But  the  first  was  gray,  not 
sorrel,  and  the  pack-saddles  carried  loads.  Two 
men  were  moving  about  among  the  animals.  One 
of  them  was  Eben  Gregg;  of  the  other,  whose  back 
was  to  me,  I  wasn't  sure.  The  powerful  build, 
the  long  arms,  the  square  shoulders,  evoked  a  mem 
ory  which  for  a  teasing  moment  remained  nebulous. 
But  only  for  a  moment ;  even  before  at  a  word  from 
Gregg  he  turned  his  face  to  view  my  heart  had 
leaped  into  my  throat  with  the  conviction  that  this 
was  Brett  Morgan. 

Brett  Morgan!  This,  then,  explained  those 
absences  that  Kit  and  I  had  noticed.  But  his  mere 


.  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       233 

presence  didn't  explain,  didn't  even  hint  at,  the 
business  that  had  brought  him  here.  It  must  be 
some  queerly  secret  business,  or  why  the  mystery 
with  which  it  was  surrounded?  Why  did  Brett 
Morgan  ride  by  night  to  the  rendezvous,  instead  of 
openly  by  day?  Why  the  stealthiness  of  Eben 
Gregg's  return  on  the  night  of  the  dance,  or  the 
agitation  of  Lorena  Pettis  at  its  discovery?  Why 
— oh,  why  a  hundred  things?  I  stood  peering  out 
from  the  thicket,  afraid  more  nearly  to  approach 
the  cabin,  ashamed,  indeed,  deliberately  to  eaves 
drop,  yet  at  the  same  time  straining  my  ears  for  an 
articulate  word  in  the  murmur  of  talk  that 
reached  me.  I  could  distinguish  the  cracked  twang 
ing  tones  of  Eben  Gregg  from  the  deep  voice  of 
Brett  Morgan,  but  of  what  they  said  I  could  make 
nothing.  Meanwhile  the  pair  were  stripping  the 
covers  from  the  packs,  revealing  what  the  bright 
ening  daylight  showed  me  were  two  small 
barrels  swung  across  each  horse.  This  puzzled  me 
extremely.  Of  all  things  on  earth,  why  barrels? 
Why  were  barrels  brought  mysteriously  by  night  to 
this  mountain  meadow?  Had  it  been  barrels  that 
Eben  Gregg  had  carried  on  into  the  high  Sierra? 
What  did  people  put  in  barrels — little  ones  like 
these?  I  could  think  of  nothing  except  nails — at 


234        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Sam  Davis's  store  there  were  nails  in  little  barrels. 
But  did  Brett  Morgan  make  secret  excursions  to  this 
place  with  a  pack-train  bearing  nails?  It  seemed 
unlikely.  Meanwhile  the  two  men,  working  in  uni 
son,  undid  the  lashings  of  the  pack  and  eased  the 
barrels  down  upon  the  grass.  One  pair  had  been 
thus  disposed  of  and  another  begun  upon  when 
my  ear  caught  a  faint  rustling  behind  me.  I 
looked  round  quickly.  Men  were  stealing  through 
the  wood — two  of  them,  advancing  in  a  line  par- 
rallel  with  the  edge  of  the  timber  toward  the  cabin. 
That  one  who  walked  in  the  rear,  a  rather  short, 
stocky  man  with  a  leather  coat  buttoned  up  beneath 
his  chin,  was  a  stranger.  The  other — ah,  they  did 
belong  together,  then,  those  small  mysterious  hap 
penings  which  had  seemed  to  have  no  reasonable 
connection ! — was  Mr.  Hackett.  A  Mr.  Hackett  still 
spectacled  and  bewhiskered,  but  incredibly  without 
his  duster.  A  Mr.  Hackett  carrying  cozily  in  his 
palm  a  small,  businesslike  automatic.  And  still  a 
Mr.  Hackett  so  precisely  his  usual  thin,  dry,  unim 
pressive  self  that  I  wondered  involuntarily  what  line 
from  the  poets  hung  unuttered  on  his  lips.  On 
they  stole  through  the  dim  wrood  like  specters, 
leaving  me  in  my  hiding-place  unseen.  In  a  mo 
ment  they  had  vanished.  I  turned  back  to  my 


'   FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       235 

peep-hole  into  the  meadow,  my  knees  shaking, 
my  heart  beating  chokingly  in  my  throat. 
Something  was  going  to  happen,  a  something  which 
bid  fair  to  furnish  thrills  quite  beyond  my  expecta 
tion  or  desire.  There  before  the  cabin,  all  uncon 
scious,  Gregg  and  Brett  Morgan  tugged  at  the  lash 
ings  of  the  mysterious  little  barrels,  while  not  a 
stone's  throw  away  in  the  wood  lurked  unaccount 
ably  Mr.  Hackett  and  his  comrade.  What  did  it 
mean?  What  astounding,  even  tragic  scene  might 
I  be  about  to  witness?  Why,  why  had  I  left  my 
safe  warm  blankets,  where  with  all  my  cowardly 
soul  I  wished  myself  that  moment — at  the  same 
time  knowing  that  no  power  could  move  me  from 
that  spot  until  I  had  seen  the  climax,  however 
strange  or  dreadful,  of  this  extraordinary  drama. 

The  second  pair  of  barrels,  then  the  third,  joined 
the  first  upon  the  grass.  All  this  while  I  watched, 
breathlessly  expectant,  torn  between  alarm  and 
a  fearful  curiosity.  Having  freed  the  horses  of 
their  burdens,  Gregg  and  Morgan  next  relieved 
them  of  their  saddles  and  allowed  them  to 
stray  away  into  the  meadow.  Then  each  man 
shouldered  a  barrel  and  turned  toward  the  timber. 
A  thrill  raced  along  my  nerves — now  the  encounter 
must  surely  come!  But  neither  shot  nor  outcry 


236       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

greeted  their  entrance  into  the  wood.  Only,  as  they 
passed  from  view,  two  figures  stole  softly 
forth  and  vanished  around  the  corner  of  the  cabin. 
Minutes  elapsed,  then,  their  voices  mingling  in 
careless  talk,  Gregg  and  Morgan  reappeared, 
shouldered  each  another  load,  and  once  more  faced 
toward  the  wood.  At  that  moment  Hackett  and 
the  other  stepped  from  their  concealment,  revolvers 
leveled,  and  a  sharp  "Halt!"  rang  out  on  the  still 
air.  Morgan  and  Gregg  wheeled — and  stood  trans 
fixed  under  the  threat  of  those  slender  cylinders  of 
steel.  Then  with  a  deep  oath  Morgan  let  fall  his 
burden,  at  the  same  time  reaching  for  his  hip. 

"Quit  that !  I've  got  you  covered !"  snapped 
Hackett,  his  thin  voice  explosive  as  a  fire-cracker. 
Under  the  menace  of  the  automatic  Morgan's  hands 
went  up.  Gregg  meanwhile  stood  with  dropped 
jaw,  like  the  mere  effigy  of  empty,  foolish  wonder. 
Perhaps  this  was  why  Hackett's  comrade,  who 
should  have  kept  his  attention  upon  Gregg,  let  it 
wander  instead  to  Morgan,  who,  his  face  dark  with 
passion,  his  massive  frame  tense  as  a  panther's 
poised  to  spring,  looked  formidable  even  as  he  stood 
with  lifted  ha^nds  under  the  muzzle  of  Hackett's  gun. 

Instantly  and  surprisingly  Gregg  snatched  his 
opportunity.  With  both  hands  he  grasped  the  bar- 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       237 

rel  on  his  shoulder,  heaved  it  above  his  head,  and 
launched  it  straight  at  Hackett.  The  flight  of  this 
strange  missile  weapon  was  necessarily  brief,  and 
to  this  Hackett  probably  owed  his  life.  For  the 
barrel  being  already  in  its  descending  arc  before  it 
reached  him,  he  received  it  not  upon  his  skull  but 
in  the  more  elastic  region  of  the  diaphragm.  Like  a 
ninepin  Mr.  Hackett  went  down  on  the  grass.  At 
the  same  instant  Morgan  leaped  upon  the  remaining 
enemy,  knocked  up  his  gun,  and  planted  a  heavy  fist 
full  on  his  jaw.  The  man  dropped  limply.  The 
fight  was  over.  Attack,  seeming  victory,  and  the 
turning  of  the  tide  of  battle  had  occupied,  it 
seemed  to  me,  the  space  between  two  breaths.  And 
Hackett  and  the  other,  disarmed  and  prostrate  on 
the  grass,  lay  helplessly  at  the  mercy  of  their  cap 
tors. 

What  would  become  of  them?  What  was  the 
meaning  of  the  whole  amazing  scene  ?  I  wanted  to 
know  so  intensely  that  not  even  the  fear  that  dragged 
at  my  feet  could  hold  them  back.  Trembling, 
appalled  at  my  own  rashness,  I  stole  through  the 
wood,  until  I  had  diminished  by  half  the  distance 
between  me  and  the  cabin.  Then  crouched  in 
a  shelter  of  tangled  greenery  I  looked  out  again  into 
the  meadow. 


238       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

The  victors  were  making  victory  secure  by  bind 
ing  the  vanquished  with  the  lashings  from  the  packs, 
Gregg  swearing  during  the  process  with  a  kind  of 
solemn  fluency,  Morgan  grimly  silent.  I  felt  again, 
as  I  peered  out  tremblingly  from  my  hiding-place, 
the  force  and  power  that  his  strong  lithe  form,  his 
sternly  handsome  face  expressed.  It  was  not  the 
voluble  Gregg,  devoting  with  minuteness  and  partic 
ularity  their  various  members  to  eternal  condemna 
tion,  whom  the  prisoners  had  to  fear.  The  silence 
of  Morgan  was  infinitely  more  threatening. 

"Well,  they're  fixed  so  they  can't  do  no  mischief 
for  a  while,"  remarked  Gregg,  concluding  his  work 
by  prodding  Hackett's  companion  in  the  back  with 
his  heavy  boot.  "What's  the  next  move,  Brett?" 

"To  herd  'em  into  the  bunk-house,  o'  course," 
announced  Morgan  tersely,  possessing  himself  of 
Hackett's  gun. 

"Oh,  hell,  why  not  leave  'em  here  while  we  git 
breakfast  ?"  complained  Gregg.  "The  kittle's  b'ilin' 
away  like  sin,  and  I'm  holler  as  a  drum  inside." 

"  'Cause  the  other  way's  a  long  sight  safer,  that's 
why,"  replied  Morgan  with  decision.  "There  ain't 
a  chance  in  a  million  of  any  one  happenin'  by,  but 
still  you  can't  never  tell.  Mebbe  it  might  be  a  pros 
pector,  mebbe  a  couple  o'  city  guys  moseyin'  round 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       239 

with  a  burro  like  they  do.  Anyway  you  and  me  got 
to  talk  things  over,  ain't  we?  And  o'  course  we 
don't  want  to  hurt  these  here  gents'  feelin's  none  by 
lettin'  on  what  wre're  a-goin'  to  do  with  'em 
before  we  do  it."  He  smiled  wickedly,  his  lips 
parting  over  his  strong  white  teeth. 

"Wisht  I  knowed  what  we  was  goin'  to  do  with 
'em,"  grumbled  Gregg,  with  an  uneasy  air. 
"Well,  anyway,  let's  git  'em  out  o'  the  way  some 
how,  'cause  that  'ere  kettle'll  be  b'iled  dry  if  we 
don't  see  to  it.  And  I'm  holler " 

"Can  it !"  cut  in  Morgan  impatiently.  "Ain't  you 
got  nothin'  bigger  to  worry  about  than  gittin'  your 
breakfast  inside  you?  'Cause  it  sure  looks  to  me 
like  you  had.  Anyway,  we  don't  want  these  here 
guys  layin'  round  in  plain  sight,  nor  them  kegs 
neither.  Come,  vamoose,  you  there!" 

Having  cursed  and  kicked  the  captives  to  their 
feet,  Gregg  and  Morgan  drove  them  before  them 
along  the  path  to  the  bunk-house.  Came  a  sound 
of  voices,  muffled  as  if  from  the  interior  of  a  build 
ing,  then  the  jar  of  a  closing  door.  Morgan  and 
Gregg  emerged  again  into  the  open,  talking  in  low 
tones.  I  caught  a  phrase  or  two:  "damned  bad 
fix — git  this  lot  over  the  line,  anyway — run  out  o' 
town  the  middle  o'  last  week -"  Gregg  entered 


240       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

the  cabin,  while  Morgan  unsaddled  his  horse  and 
threw  the  canvas  pack-covers  over  the  remaining 
kegs.  While  so  employed  he  burst  into  sudden 
laughter. 

"Say,  Eben,"  he  called  through  the  cabin  door, 
"you  sure  missed  it,  not  bein'  around  town  to  see 
Miss  Luppy  start  out  a-hossback  yesterday !  Say,  it 
was  some  show!  And  a  little  dude  from  down 
below — say,  he  could  ride!  Enjoyin'  himself,  he 
was,  like  a  cat  on  a  red-hot  stove!  Coin'  to  camp 
out  at  Eagle  Lake — lucky  they  didn't  change  their 
minds  and  come  up  this  here  way  instead !" 

Gregg's  head  appeared  in  the  door. 

"How  do  you  know  they  didn't — that  they  ain't 
around  here  somewheres?"  he  asked  uneasily. 

"Rot — they  was  goin'  to  Eagle  Lake  to  see  the 
scenery,  wasn't  they,  and  why  should  they  want  to 
come  up  here  where  there  ain't  none?"  returned 
Morgan  carelessly.  "Besides,  you  ain't  seen  nothin' 
of  'em,  have  you  ?  But  say,  if  you'd  'a'  got  a  squint 
at  the  old  girl !"  He  exploded  again  into  laughter. 

"Did  the  whole  bunch  go — little  Sally  and  all?" 

"Sure,  she  went,"  replied  Morgan  with  a  certain 
dry  brevity.  The  smile  left  his  face. 

"Say,  ain't  she  the  peach!  Sugar-candy!  Um, 
ah !  Them  eyes,  that  pretty  dimplin'  smile !"  Gregg 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       241 

stood  grinning  fatuously.  But  if  I  listened  without 
pleasure  to  this  catalogue  of  my  charms  Brett 
Morgan  seemed  to  enjoy  it  even  less.  He  turned 
on  Gregg  a  darkly  lowering  look,  but  said  nothing. 

"And  that  feller  that's  sparkin'  her,  that  engineer, 
Vvas  he  along  too?"  pursued  Gregg,  unnoticing. 

If  Morgan's  face  had  been  dark  before  it  was 
threatening  as  a  storm-cloud  now.  He  frowned 
blackly. 

"Yes,  he  was  along  too,  curse  him !  He  wouldn't 
'a'  been,  though,  if  he  knew  what  was  good  for  him. 
I  been  layin'  low,  I  have,  account  o'  this  business 
here — too  much  good  money  in  it  to  throw  away, 
even  for  the  fun  o'  spoilin'  his  good  looks.  But 
I'll  git  him,  I'll  settle  with  him  yet,  and  mebbe  not 
so  very  long  ahead,  either.  He'll  wish  good  and 
plenty  he  hadn't  never  tried  to  set  in  no  game  with 
mef 

"Do  tell!"  remarked  Gregg  with  mild  interest. 
"I  never  knowed  he  done  you  any  dirt."  He 
glanced  curiously  at  the  other's  lowering  face.  "It 
ain't  mebbe  on  account  o'  little  Sally  ?"  he  hazarded. 

"Dry  up!"  responded  Morgan  uncompromisingly. 
"I  ain't  askin'  you  nor  no  one  to  git  pryin'  into  my 
affairs.  Well,  is  that  feed  you  was  hollerm'  about 
ready?" 


242        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Gregg  nodded  and  withdrew  into  the  cabin. 
Morgan  followed.  There  was  a  sound  of  stools 
scraping  the  floor,  of  dishes  rattling,  of  an  occa 
sional  spoken  word.  But  my  concern  was  no  longer 
with  the  cabin,  except  to  be  certain  that  the  meal 
had  begun.  That  would  keep  the  pair  employed,  I 
felt  safe  in  reckoning,  some  fifteen  minutes  any 
way.  It  was  time  infinitely  precious,  for  Morgan's 
words  to  Gregg  just  now  had  hardened  a  wavering 
impulse  into  resolution.  At  any  moment,  by  the 
smoke  of  our  fire  or  in  some  other  fashion,  our 
camp  might  be  discovered.  Before  that  happened 
Mr.  Hackett  and  the  other  must  be  free,  must 
supplement  our  slender  forces,  which,  when  you 
considered  it,  consisted  of  Joe  alone.  Joe,  I  knew, 
carried  a  revolver,  which  except  for  Kit's  bird-gun 
was  the  sole  firearm  we  possessed.  In  case  of  an 
encounter  Jimmie,  unarmed,  uncomprehending, 
and  at  any  time  unwarlike,  would  be  outmatched  a 
dozen  times  by  Eben  Gregg.  That  left  Joe  alone 
against  Morgan — Joe  who  had  no  idea  that  Morgan 
was  in  any  serious  sense  his  enemy,  against  Morgan 
embittered,  vindictive,  conscienceless.  No,  I  needed 
the  help  of  Hackett  and  his  fellow-prisoner  as  much 
as  they  needed  mine — and  I  feared  that  this  was 
direly.  These  minutes,  so  few,  so  fugitive,  were  all 


'FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT   243 

I  had,  and  they  were  minutes  too  priceless  to  be  lost. 
Leaving-  the  shelter  of  the  thicket  I  stole  toward  the 
bunk-house.    Once  in  the  little  path  I  cast  one  swift 
glance  of  fear  behind  me,  sped  light-footed  to  the 
door,  lifted  the  old-fashioned  latch  and  gave  a  cau 
tious  shove.    If  ever  soulless  matter  showed  deprav 
ity,  it  was  that  door.     Rust  stiffened  its  hinges,  its 
warped  edge  clung  resisting  to  the  floor,  cracks  and 
groans  arose  from  the  straining  wood.     My  knees 
shook,  cold  beads  stood  on  my  forehead,  the  breath 
rattled  dryly  in  my  throat.    Time  crept  by  laggingly, 
ages  and  ages  of  it,  and  still,  like  a  condemned  soul 
doomed  to  an  endless,  hopeless  task,  I  struggled  with 
that  door.    Then  quite  suddenly  it  swung  open,  and 
a  stream  of  yellow  sunlight  poured  into  the  bunk- 
house  upon  the  two  men  who  sat  propped  against  the 
farther  wall,  watching  me  with  burning  eyes.  In  Mr. 
Hackett's  were  recognition  and  profound  surprise, 
in  his  companion's,   whose   face  was   swollen   and 
bloody  from  Morgan's  fist,  mere  groggy  bewilder 
ment.     Before   I  could  reach  Mr.   Hackett,   by  a 
series   of  uncouth   writhings   he  had   risen  to   his 
knees.    I  dragged  him  to  his  feet,  and  was  turning 
to  render  the  same  service  to  the  other,  when  Mr. 
Hackett  gave  a  sudden  exclamation.    I  looked  round 
to  find  Brett  Morgan  standing  in  the  open  door. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IT  WAS  like  the  washing  of  a  great  wave  over 
me,  that  drowning,  suffocating  terror  that 
seemed  to  beat  me  down  and  stifle  me  when  I  saw 
Brett  Morgan  there  in  the  doorway  of  the  bunk- 
house.  For  a  long,  an  interminable  moment  he  did 
not  move  or  speak,  but  stood  with  his  eyes  on  mine, 
holding  them  with  that  power,  that  sinister  fascina 
tion,  I  had  always  felt  in  him.  Then  a  slow  smile 
parted  his  lips. 

"So  it's  you,  Sally  ?"  he  said  softly.  "You  and 
me  are  meetin'  again  away  up  here?"  There  was  a 
caressing  warmth  in  his  deep  voice,  a  note  of 
restrained  exultation.  All  at  once  his  face  changed. 
In  a  stride  he  had  crossed  the  floor  and  caught  my 
wrist.  "Where's  the  rest  of  your  crowd?"  he 
demanded  sternly.  "Whereabouts  is  your  camp?" 

At  this  my  courage  somehow  illogically  returned. 
It  wasn't  his  bullying  that  I  feared ! 

"I  shan't  tell  you,"  I  said  boldly.  As  I  met  his 
heavy  frown  my  chin  went  up,  and  my  eyes  flashed 
defiantly  into  his. 

244 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       245 

"You  won't  tell?"  His  grasp  tightened  on  my 
wrist.  "You  will — I'll  make  you !" 

"Look  here,  Morgan,  better  keep  your  hands  off 
the  girl!"  interposed  Mr.  Hackett  sharply.  "This 
game  ain't  played  out  yet,  you  know,  and  if  you 
show  yourself  a  white  man  now  maybe  it'll  count  for 
you  in  the  end." 

"Don't  worry,  Mr.  Hackett,"  I  said  evenly.  "Let 
him  break  my  wrist  if  he  likes.  He  can't  get  a  word 
from  me."  I  looked  tauntingly  at  the  man  who 
with  one  movement  could  have  crushed  my  hand 
to  pulp,  defying  him,  daring  him  to  hurt  me.  "Why 
don't  you  ?"  I  challenged  him.  "Why  don't  you  ?" 
And  I  laughed,  taught  by  some  suddenly  awakened 
instinct  the  sure  and  simple  way  to  master  this 
fierce  primitive  male  creature.  It  needed  no  cour 
age;  for  all  his  strength  he  couldn't  bring  himself 
to  hurt  me  and  I  knew  it  well — the  very  pressure  of 
his  fingers  told  me.  I  met  his  frown  fearlessly,  and 
countered  with  the  daring  of  my  smile. 

"Why  don't  you?"  I  taunted  him  again. 

It  worked,  this  suddenly  discovered  formula — 
old  as  Mother  Eve,  yet  new  to  me.  The  frown  in 
his  eyes  changed  to  a  sultry  tenderness. 

"You  got  my  number,  Sally,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "I  ain't  goin'  to  hurt  you — you  know  it 


246        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

all  right,  I  guess.  Don't  you  go  buttin'  in  though, 
damn  you!"  He  turned  on  Hackett  savagely. 
"And  anything  you  know  you  better  come  through 
with  quick,  that's  all !" 

"Mr.  Hackett  knows  nothing  at  all  about  how  I 
came  here,"  I  interrupted,  maintaining  my  defiant 
air.  "If  you  touch  him,  you  are  a  coward.  Only 
a  coward  would  hurt  a  man  whose  hands  are  tied." 

He  laughed.  "I  never  see  a  scratchier  little  kitten 
than  what  you  are,  Sally.  There  ain't  no  makin' 
you  behave,  is  there?  Not  unless  I  had  you  all  to 
myself  for  a  while — then  mebbe  I'd  git  you  gentled ! 
Well,  mebbe  I  will,  too —  Hello,  Gregg,  this  here's  a 
pretty  mess,  ain't  it?  I  guess  this  mixes  things  up 
some,  hey?" 

The  astounded  face  of  Eben  Gregg  had  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  With  open  mouth  he  contemplated 
the  scene.  "Well,  do  tell!"  he  finally  ejaculated. 

"If  it  ain't— little— Sally "  At  this  point  he 

became  speechless. 

"It  sure  is,"  returned  Morgan  incisively,  "and 
that  means  the  whole  damn  bunch  is  round  .here 
somewhere,  too.  What  we  got  to  do  is  light  out, 
and  light  out  quick.  Here,  I  want  to  speak  to  you. 
And  don't  you  guys  holler  or  nothin',  or  I'll  kick 


'FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       247 

your  slats  loose.  Nor  you  neither,  Sally — there's 
some  ways  you  can't  fool  with  me." 

He  went  out,  closing  the  door  on  himself  and 
Gregg,  with  whom  he  held  a  whispered  conversa 
tion.  I  looked  hurriedly  and  hopefully  about,  but 
the  windows,  partly  boarded  over,  and  blocked 
by  the  tangled  growth  outside,  offered  no  escape. 
Moving  close  to  Mr.  Hackett,  I  hurriedly  explained 
my  presence  there.  He  heard  me  with  a  soberness 
from  which  I  drew  small  comfort.  It  was  pain 
fully  clear  that  instead  of  helping  I  had  not  only 
run  my  own  head  into  a  noose  but  increased  the 
peril  of  the  two  prisoners  as  well.  Their  captors 
would  deal  with  them  only  the  more  drastically, 
very  likely,  because  their  rescue  was  now  a  possi 
bility.  What  the  business  was  in  which  Gregg 
and  Morgan  were  engaged  was  still  a  mystery  to 
me,  but  that  the  essence  of  it  was  secrecy  I  real 
ized.  And  the  prisoners  knew  the  secret — there 
fore  it  followed,  didn't  it,  that  they  must  somehow 
be  disposed  of?  I,  too,  had  stumbled  on  enough  to 
make  me  dangerous — what  would  be  done  with  me  ? 
Overwhelmed  by  these  reflections  I  began  to  sob. 

"Forgive  me!"  I  begged.  "I  meant  to  help — 
and  I've  only  made  things  worse !" 

"There,  don't  cry,  little  Sally,"  he  comforted  me 


248        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

in  a  queer  cracked  whisper.  "You're  a  right  brave 
girl,  and  you  did  your  best.  It's  you  I'm  worrying 
about — running  risks  is  my  business.  Try  your 
best  to  hold  back  and  delay  things — it's  pretty  near 
time  somebody  was  coming  down  from  camp  to 
look  for  you." 

The  sun  had  now  risen,  and  I  knew  the  camp 
must  be  astir.  But  even  if  they  had  found  that  I 
was  missing  I  was  not  sure  they  would  look  for  me 
at  once.  Miss  Luppy,  for  instance,  knew  that  I  con 
templated  a  morning  bath  in  the  river,  and  for  a 
while  at  least  my  absence  might  be  attributed  to 
this. 

Eben  Gregg  now  entered  and  closed  the  door. 
He  said  nothing,  but  proceeded  in  a  businesslike 
fashion  to  tie  my  hands  with  an  end  of  rope.  I 
began  to  speak,  hoping  to  move  him — the  man  who 
cared  about  a  little  gray  cat  must  have  some  soft 
ness  in  him  somewhere — but  he  checked  me  sourly, 

"Now  look  a-here,  Sally,"  he  said  with  decision, 
"I  ain't  one  that  likes  to  use  a  woman  rough,  nor 
yet  to  see  'em  used  that  way.  If  you'd  V  minded 
your  own  little  business,  like  you'd  ought  to,  you 
wouldn't  'a'  been  in  his  fix  and  neither'd  us.  Me 
and  Brett  has  got  our  rights  like  other  folks,  and 
them  what  comes  away  up  here  to  interfere  has 


'FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        249 

got  to  take  what's  comin'  to  'em."  Mr.  Gregg 
paused  to  scowl  at  the  prisoners.  "I  guess  you  ain't 
goin'  to  git  hurt  any,  so  long  as  you're  a  good  girl 
and  behave  and  mind  what  you're  told,  but  you'll 
jest  natcherally  have  to  put  up  with  a  little  incon 
venience  on  account  of  causin'  us  a  damned  big  lot 
of  it.  There,  I  got  you  tied,  and  it  don't  hurt  you 
none,  does  it?  I  expect,  though,  you  won't  like 

this  so  well "  Here  he  whipped  out  a  bandanna 

and  by  a  sudden  movement  got  it  over  my  mouth 
and  bound  firmly  behind  my  ears.  "Now  don't 
you  take  on  nor  nothin' — folks  have  been  knowed 
to  bust  a  blood-vessel  takin'  on  when  there  warn't 
no  reason.  Brett'll  have  the  horses  ready  in  a 
minute,  and  then  we'll  mosey  'long." 

Mr.  Hackett  had  twice  attempted  to  interrupt  the 
flow  of  this  discourse,  but  had  been  silenced  by  a 
glimpse  of  Gregg's  revolver.  Now  he  tried  again. 

"Gregg,  you  don't  know  what  you're  letting 
yourself  in  for,"  he  broke  in.  "It  ain't  you  we're 
after " 

"Now  look  a-here,"  threatened  Gregg,  again  pro 
ducing  the  gun  and  toying  with  it  ominously. 
"You're  a  great  one  to  argufy,  I  guess,  from  what  I 
hear,  but  before  a  party  argufies  he'd  a  heap  better 
find  out  if  his  argufyin'  is  agreeable  to  them  that's 


250        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

listenin'.  Well,  jest  now  it  ain't.  I  ain't  got  the 
time  nor  I  ain't  got  the  attention  to  give  to  argu- 
fyin'.  I'm  a  mighty  busy  individgil  this  bright 
mornin',  and  argufying  ain't  one  o'  the  things  I 
got  laid  out  on  my  schedgil  a-tall,  see?" 

"But  I  want  to  put  you  wise,  Gregg,"  said  Hack- 
ett  in  a  quick  whisper,  "I " 

"Dry  up !"  commanded  Gregg,  in  a  muffled  roar. 
"You  let  out  one  more  word  and " 

The  entrance  of  Morgan  interrupted  him. 

"Well,  you  got  the  horses  ready?"  demanded 
Gregg  eagerly.  "If  you  have,  me  and  Sally " 

"I've  changed  my  mind,  Eben,"  said  Morgan 
calmly.  "It'll  be  me  and  Sally.  You  can  come 
along  when  you've  fixed  these  fellows  here.  We'll 
wait  for  you  on  the  trail  like  it  was  agreed.  Come, 
don't  waste  time  gittin'  excited;  I  got  my  mind 
made  up  and  the  quicker  you  git  down  to  business 
and  settle  things  here  the  quicker  you  can  hit  the 
trail  yourself." 

Gregg  swore  and  grumbled,  but  the  hard  ruthless 
force  of  the  other  beat  him  down.  Morgan  tossed 
him  some  strips  of  sacking. 

"Make  a  good  job  o'  the  gags,"  he  enjoined. 
"There  mustn't  be  a  peep  out  o'  them  guys,  not  if 
they  choke  to  death  tryin'."  He  turned  to  me, 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       251 

where  I  stood  trembling  but  of  necessity  dumb,  and 
took  me  by  the  arm. 

"Come  along,  Sally."  I  made  no  effort  at  resist 
ance — it  was  too  obviously  vain — and  together  we 
left  the  bunk-house  and  went  swiftly  along  the  path 
to  the  cabin. 

Before  the  cabin  two  horses,  one  of  them 
Morgan's  own  gray,  stood  ready  saddled.  A  third, 
with  a  folded  blanket  on  its  back,  was  hitched  to  a 
staple  in  the  wall,  waiting,  I  assumed,  for  Gregg. 
Without  speech,  Morgan  lifted  me  upon  one  of  the 
saddled  horses,  mounted  his  own,  and  taking  mine 
by  the  bridle  rode  rapidly  across  the  meadow.  The 
mouth  of  the  defile  from  which  I  had  last  night  seen 
Eben  Gregg  and  the  pack-train  issuing  was  all  but 
invisible  in  the  morning  light.  But  it  opened 
before  us  as  we  approached,  and  we  began  to  ascend 
a  steep  trail  beside  a  thinly  trickling  watercourse. 
Morgan  said  nothing,  and  for  myself  the  gag  com 
pelled  silence.  As  to  what  I  felt,  I  recall  only  a 
curious  calm,  a  blankness  of  bewilderment,  or  per 
haps  of  insensibility,  as  though  the  shocks  of  this 
extraordinary  morning  had  benumbed  my  stricken 
mind. 

In  this  queer  abstraction  I  took  note  of 
the  most  trivial  and  irrelevant  details — of  a 


252       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

flight  of  tiny  yellow  butterflies,  of  a  huge  and  hide 
ous  lizard  basking  on  a  stone,  of  the  fragrance  of 
the  wild  sage  that  showed  its  dull  gray-green 
against  the  brown  of  the  canon  wall.  I  thought  of 
Arabella,  and  a  faint  flicker  of  amusement  stirred 
my  stagnant  mind — what  would  Arabella  say  if  she 
could  see  me  now  ?  I  thought  of  those  whom  I  had 
left  peacefully  asleep  in  camp  when  I  set  out  on  my 
adventure,  and  wondered  calmly,  and  as  though 
across  infinities  of  time  and  space,  what  they  were 
doing — whether  they  knew  that  I  was  missing,  and 
what  Kit  had  said,  and  what  Jimmie,  and  what 
Miss  Luppy.  As  to  Joe,  he  wouldn't  care,  would 
he?  No,  Joe  didn't  care  about  me  any  more,  he 
thought  me  false  and  trivial  and  capable  of  loving 
Jimmie  Halliday — or  worse  though  less  incredible, 
Jimmie's  uncle's  money.  This  made  me  very  sorry 
for  myself,  and  my  eyes  grew  wet  and  my  throat 
ached.  Yet  it  wras  a  dim,  far-off  kind  of  feeling, 
too,  as  if  the  person  I  was  sorry  for  were  some  one 
else,  a  Sally  not  at  all  identical  with  this  bound  and 
muffled  figure  on  the  horse. 

Up  and  up  we  climbed,  Morgan  mercilessly  urg 
ing  on  the  horses.  Now  and  then,  warned  by  their 
laboring  breath,  he  paused  briefly.  During  these 
intervals  he  did  not  speak,  but  employed  them  in 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       253 

rolling  cigarettes  with  deft  brown  fingers.  I 
remembered  the  stub  I  had  found  on  the  path  down 
into  the  mine — and  the  other  that  day  at  Little 
York.  The  first,  of  course,  had  been  dropped  there 
by  Brett  Morgan's  hand,  but  how  about  the  second  ? 
What  had  he  been  doing  at  Little  York — it  was 
the  evening  of  that  day,  I  recollected,  that  he 
had  appeared  unexpectedly,  a  dusty  returning 
traveler,  at  his  mother's  house  ?  Well,  I  gave  it  up ; 
it  was  one  of  the  bits  I  couldn't  yet  fit  in  to  the 
faintly  distinguishable  pattern  into  which  the  puzzle 
was  resolving.  And  besides  you  can't  think  very 
consecutively  or  logically  in  dreams,  and  it  was  in  a 
dream  that  I  seemed  moving. 

We  issued  at  last  from  between  the  dry  scarred 
walls  of  the  ravine  upon  a  wide  slope,  green  and 
forested,  and  ascending  in  a  broad  magnificent 
sweep  beyond  my  view.  Here  Morgan  halted,  dis 
mounted  and  lifted  me  carefully  from  my  saddle. 
He  secured  the  horses,  then  led  me  to  a  seat  on  the 
moss  and  needles  at  the  foot  of  a  great  pine.  All 
this  time  he  had  not  spoken,  and  his  face,  as  I 
searched  it  with  my  frightened  eyes,  was  unreveal- 
ing.  Kneeling  beside  me  he  freed  my  hands,  then 
untied  the  stifling  bandanna.  Between  the  relief  of 
this  and  the  terror  of  his  presence  I  began  to  weep, 


254        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

hiding  my  face  in  hands  swollen  and  discolored 
from  their  bonds.  There  was  no  spirit  left  in  me 
now — I  was  broken  and  weary  and  utterly,  help 
lessly  terrified.  I  wondered  by  what  possible  feint 
I  could  possess  myself  of  Morgan's  gun — and 
where  a  bullet  was  most  quickly  fatal,  and  whether 
it  hurt  much — I  didn't  want  to  be  hurt 

Morgan  had  moved  away.  He  returned  an'd 
seated  himself  beside  me. 

"Sally!"  He  attempted,  but  without  roughness, 
to  draw  my  hands  from  before  my  face. 

"Sally,  here's  water.  Please  drink  it."  He  held 
the  cup  to  my  lips,  and  I  drank  obediently.  It  was 
icy  cold  spring  water,  and  the  draught  revived  me. 
I  stopped  crying,  and  leaned  back  in  exhausted  quiet 
against  the  great  tawny  bole  of  the  pine.  Again, 
with  that  strange  preoccupation  with  trifles  which 
in  moments  of  crisis  seems  to  relieve  the  intoler 
able  tension  of  the  mind,  I  d\velt  in  a  dreamy  fash 
ion  on  various  small  happenings  in  the  world  about 
me — the  flicker  of  light  and  shade  on  the  forest 
floor,  the  excited  chatter  of  a  squirrel,  the  flash  of  a 
darting  blue  jay's  wing.  Ah,  if  I  could  escape  from 
myself,  from  this  tired,  bruised,  desperately  imper 
iled  body,  and  be  part  of  this  beauty,  this  peace! 
Again  a  sob  caught  my  breath, 


'FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT     255 

"Sally!"  His  hand  closed  over  mine  and  by  a 
kind  of  compulsion  I  looked  up  to  meet  his  gaze. 

"Sally,  you  ain't  got  no  call  to  be  so  scared. 
You're  scared  mighty  nigh  out  o'  your  senses, 
Sally,  but  you  ain't  no  call  to  be.  I  won't  harm 
you  any — I  swear  it." 

I  felt  nothing,  so  I  suppose  I  showed  nothing,  but 
incredulity  and  dread. 

"Ah,  you  don't  believe  me!  You  think  me  about 
as  low-down  as  they  come,  don't  you — yellow  clear 
through?  Well,  I've  lived  pretty  rough,  I  guess — 
a  fellow  ain't  got  much  chance  to  do  different  if  he 
grows  up  in  a  place  like  Bandy's,  and  quits  school 
when  he's  twelve,  and  finds  out  too  late  there's  no 
gittin5  anywhere  without  you  have  education  or  a 
pull  or  something.  O'  course,  there's  a  lot  that 
starts  out  like  I  done,  and  are  satisfied  to  never 
git  beyond  herdin'  cows,  or  doin'  pick-and-shovel 
work,  or  such  as  that.  I  wasn't.  I  couldn't 
git  down  to  slavin'  like  them  square-heads  and  wops 
jest  over.  I  wanted — the  same  things  the  lucky 
ones  had,  fellows  no  better'n  me,  mebbe,  but  jest 
havin'  the  luck  to  start  out  different,  so  the  snaps 
come  their  way  without  them  half  tryin'.  I'd  think 
how  easy  they  lived,  and  then  how  I  done — of  the 
dirty  bunk-houses,  the  bum  eats,  the  roughnecks  I 


256       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

was  herded  with.  And  there  was  somethin'  in  me 
that  riz  ag'in''  it  all,  so  that  though  I'd  never  had 
anything  better  I  ached  for  it  all  the  time,  jest  like 
it  was  somethin'  I'd  had  and  lost.  Sally,  mebbe  I 
wouldn't  have  fell  for  you  like  I  done  if  I  could  ever 
'a'  been  suited  with  the  kind  o'  girls  that  come  my 
way — like  them  table-girls  from  the  Golconda  hotel 
and  such.  But  I  couldn't — there  was  another  sort 
in  my  mind  all  the  time,  and  then — oh,  how  well 
I  remember  it,  that  first  time  I  saw  you — puttin' 
back  the  brush  and  callin'  out  in  your  sweet  voice, 
sweeter'n  any  bird-note !  It  was  like  you  was  some 
thing  right  out  of  a  picture,  or  a  dream — not  hardly 
real  at  all " 

1  'But  the  first  time  you  saw  me  was  in  your 
mother's  kitchen !"  I  interrupted,  yet  with  a  sudden 
conviction  that  it  wasn't. 

He  hesitated,  then  went  on  resolutely. 

"No  it  wasn't,  Sally.  I  had  seen  you  before 
that — and  it  was  all  up  with  me  from  the  minute  I 
did.  I  says  to  myself,  'There's  the  girl  I  want  out 
of  all  the  world !  She's  like  them  that  used  to  come 
to  the  camp  where  I  was  trainin',  wearin'  swell 
clothes  and  gittin'  beaued  round  by  the  officers,  only 
a  hundred  times  prettier'n  any  of  'em.  There 
wasn't  any  of  'em  had  such  eyes,  such  soft  dimplin' 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       257 

cheeks,  such  ways  of  movin'  and  speakin'  and  all! 
She's  a  peach,  a  queen!  I  want  her,  and  I  got  to 
have  her — somehow  or  other  I  got  to  have  her/ 
And  I  ain't  never  changed,  Sally.  I  wanted  you 
from  that  first  minute,  and  I  want  you  now,  too 
much  ever  to  give  you  up.  I'm  in  a  bad  hole  right 
now,  mebbe,  but  that  ain't  sayin'  I  won't  pull  out  of 
it.  If  I  do — when  I  do — it's  a  good  deal  more'n 
likely  I'll  be  right  on  Easy  Street — I'll  be  where  I 
can  ask  you  what  I  been  wantin'  to  all  along — to 
marry  me,  Sally.  Oh,  Sally,  don't  look  at  me  so 
surprised — like  it  was  somethin'  you  couldn't  never 
think  of!  I  ain't  educated,  I  know,  but  look  at 
some  of  them  fellows  that  have  struck  it  rich  in  oil 
— ain't  they  as  big  roughnecks  as  there  is,  and  yet 
let  'em  be  rich  and  who  cares?  And  I'd  make 
myself  right  over,  Sally,  I'd  be  wax  in  your  little 
hands  to  do  what  you  liked  with!  Jest  let  me  be 
rich  once — and  I  got  a  chance,  a  big  chance  to  be 
— and  nobody'll  ask  how  Morgan  got  his  money, 
nor  what  he  was  before  he  got  it.  Let  me  get 
where  I  can  hire  lawyers  to  bring  me  off  clear  in 
case  of — in  case  of  any  trouble,  like  plenty  of  rich 
men  has  to,  and  I  won't  worry  no  more.  I'll  be 

right  on  velvet,  and  then,  then,  Sally " 

His  eyes  said  the  rest.     He  leaned  nearer,  his 


258       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT. 

hand  closing  crushingly  on  mine.  His  hard, 
swarthy,  handsome  face  had  softened  as  he  spoke 
— or  was  it  that  as  I  listened  I  had  seen  in  it  for 
the  first  time  a  troubled,  striving,  hungry  human 
spirit,  a  spirit  like  my  own,  passionately  craving 
joy,  fiercely  rebelling  against  pain,  seeking  what 
seemed  its  good  by  means  too  often  devious  and 
self-frustrating?  'And  suddenly  I  knew  that  what 
ever  my  fate  at  his  hands,  in  whatever  catastrophe  he 
might  involve  me,  I  could  never  hate  him,  that  in 
spite  of  myself  I  should  pity  and  forgive. 

"Sally!"  he  said  again,  and  at  the  thrill  in  his 
voice  my  fear  returned.  It  was  like  the  first  sound 
of  breaking  in  a  dam  that  confined  a  terrible  dark 
flood. 

"No,  no!"  I  implored,  trying  to  shrink  back 
from  his  approach.  He  paused,  a  sullen  shadow  on 
his  face. 

"I  said  you  didn't  need  to  be  scared  of  me,  Sally." 
"Then  let  me  go — you're  hurting  me — please!" 
Slowly  his  grip  relaxed  and  I  drew  my  hand  from 
his.      But   I   couldn't   escape   the   intense,    somber, 
brooding  eyes  that  dwelt  on  mine  and  held  them, 
wide  and  frightened,  upturned  to  his  own. 

"I'm  sorry  I  hurt  you,  Sally,"  he  said  gloomily, 
"and  yet — there's  times  when  I  think  how  you  put 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       259 

me  off,  and  kind  of  mix  me  up  and  make  a  fool  of 
me  with  your  soft  pretty  ways  and  all,  when  I — 
v;hen  I  almost  feel  like  I  could  hurt  you,  Sally,  yes, 
like  I  could  take  your  little  white  throat  in  my  two 
hands  and  choke  the  breath  out  of  you.  You — you 
keep  me  in  torment  all  the  time,  and  then  you  blame 
me  because  I  hold  your  hand  too  tight — you  look 
at  me  with  those  big,  scared  eyes  and  make  me  feel 
a  brute  for  jest  nothin'  at  all.  Yes,  it's  seemed  to 
me  before  now  that  I  could  hurt  you  and  be  glad  of 
it 

"But  I'm  sorry,  honest!"  he  added  with  a  swift 
change  of  tone,  "I'm  sorry  I  hurt  your  hand,  your 
little  soft  hand !"  He  caught  it  up  and  put  it  to  his 
lips.  "Oh,  Sally" — passion  leaped  in  him  'again 
like  a  flame — "I  love  you !  Don't  you  understand  ? 
I  love  you!  It  wouldn't  matter  if  after  to-day  I 
wasn't  never  to  see  you  no  more — the  thought  of 
you  would  keep  me  hungry  all  my  life.  There 
wouldn't  be  nothin'  that  could  make  up  to  me  for 
losin'  you,  not  booze,  nor  women,  nor  racin'  cars, 
nor  all  the  things  I  thought  worth  havin',  once. 
There's  jest  the  one  thing  I  care  for  now,  one  thing 
worth  runnin'  all  the  risk  to  git,  and  that's  you, 
you,  Sally!" 

"But   you   mustn't   think   of  me  like   that!"      I 


260       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

faltered,  compelled  by  his  terrible  sincerity  to  be  sin 
cere.  "There  can  never,  never  be  anything " 

"Don't  say  it,"  he  broke  in  harshly.  "Don't 
rouse  the  devil  in  me,  Sally !  Let  me  go  on  hopin,' 
dreamin'  of  you  bein'  mine  some  day.  Because  then 
I  got  a  reason  for  not  givin'  way  to  all  the  devil 
ment  that's  in  me.  But  if  you  go  to  talkin'  that 
way,  like  you  wanted  for  me  to  give  you  up — 
mebbe  to  that  damn  Lambert — then  I'll " 

But  with  sudden  unreasoning  boldness  I  inter 
rupted. 

"What  makes  you  hate  Joe  Lambert  so  ?  Isn't  it 
natural  he  should  come  to  Miss  Luppy's  sometimes 
when  he's  a  kind  of  relation  of  hers — at  least  his 
father  was  old  Mr.  Bates's  nephew  ?"  For  a  second, 
no  more,  Brett  Morgan's  eyes  contracted  oddly,  or 
so  it  seemed  to  me.  An  instant  afterward  I  doubted 
it,  the  look  had  vanished  so  completely.  I  went  on : 

"He  has  done  you  no  injury,  you  have  barely  met 
him,  you  don't  know  him  at  all,  really.  And  yet 
you  never  speak  of  him  without — saying  ugly  words 
about  him,  as  if  he  were  your  enemy." 

He  hesitated,  then,  "He  is  my  enemy,"  he  said 
sullenly.  "Any  man  that's  after  you  is  that,  Sally." 
The  smoldering  dark  eyes  searched  my  face.  "Tell 
me  straight — how  are  things  between  you?" 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT     261 

"There's  nothing  between  us.  We're  not  even — • 
good  friends,  now."  I  tried  to  keep  my  tone  quite 
level. 

He  considered  this  gloomily.  "Well,  I  guess  that 
don't  count  for  much,"  he  declared.  "Two  that's 
keepin'  company  is  pretty  sure  to  scrap  now  and 
then.  What  I  want  to  know — and  I  got  to  know 
it,  Sally — is  whether  you  and  him  have  got  it  fixed 
up — to  marry/'  His  look  met  mine  with  a  stern 
insistence.  The  blood  rose  in  my  cheeks,  and  my 
eyes  fell. 

"But  there's  nothing  between  us,  nothing  at  all," 
I  faltered.  "I  don't  think  Joe  means  to  marry  any 
one.  He  will  probably  go  away  very  soon — to 
South  America."  Ah,  how  dreary  it  sounded — 
and  how  inevitably,  inescapably  true! 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Ah,  if  that's  really  the 
way  of  it !  But  I  ain't  sure,  I  ain't  sure !  No,  Sally, 
you  don't  look  me  in  the  eye.  There's  more  to  it 
than  you  let  on — you  care  for  the  fellow,  Sally. 
You're  sore  right  now  'cause  he  ain't  asked  you  to 
go  with  him!" 

The  stab  of  it  brought  a  cry  from  me. 

"How  dare  you  say  that  of  me?  As  if  I'd  want 
to  go — with  any  one  who  didn't  ask  me,"  I  con 
cluded  lamely. 


262       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

He  gave  a  bitter  laugh.  "That  ain't  got  nothin' 
to  do  with  it — love  don't  work  that  way.  And  as  to 
his  not  askin'  you,  with  the  chances  he's  had — oh, 
Sally,  Sally,  he  don't  love  you  like  I  do,  he  ain't  got 
it  in  him  to  love  you  like  I  do — don't  you  see  it? 
If  I'd  been  in  his  shoes,  let  to  ride  with  you,  and 
set  with  you,  and  all,  like  he's  been,  instead  of  a 
low-down  roughneck  that  couldn't  hardly  git  to 
speak  to  you  only  now  and  then,  do  you  think  I'd 
V  waited  all  this  while  to  ask  you?  I'd  V  told 
you  over  'n'  over  how  I  loved  you,  I'd  'a'  had  you  in 
my  arms,  my  lips  on  yours,  makin'  you  say  yes,  not 
lettin'  you  go  till  you  did.  The  poor,  shilly- 
shallyin',  white-livered  fish!  What  does  he  know 
of  lovin'  ?  It  ain't  in  him,  that's  all !  Let  him  go, 
Sally,  to  South  America  or  wherever,  and  give  me 
jest  a  chance.  Ah,  I  could  make  you  love  me,  if  I 
had  you  all  my  own  for  a  little  wrhile !" 

Of  a  sudden  his  arms  were  around  me.  "Sally, 
Sally,"  he  whispered,  "kiss  me,  kiss  me  once! 
You'll  know  then  what  it  is  to  be  loved  like 
I  love  you — you  won't  think  no  more  of  a  fellow 
that  can  put  off,  and  wait,  and  give  you  a  chance 
to  slip  away  from  him  after  all.  Oh,  Sally,  jest 
once — I  love  you  so!" 

I  shrank  from  him,  hiding  my  face.     "No,  no!" 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        263 

I  cried.  But  he  drew  me  closer,  and  his  deep  soft 
voice  was  at  my  ear. 

"I  could  take  your  kisses  easy,  honey,  if  I  wanted 
to — you  ain't  got  no  more  power  to  hold  me  off 
than  a  cottontail  could  a  kyote.  But  I  don't  want 
to — I  want  you  to  give  'em  of  your  own  free  will. 
Oh,  Sally,  give  me  one,  jest  one — I'd  sell  my  soul 
for  it!  Give  me  jest  one,  and  I  swear  I'll  let  you 
go!  Don't  madden  me  till  I— forget  everything!" 

"Wait,  listen!"  I  snatched  desperately  at  the 
moment's  respite.  "Horses  are  coming  up  the 
canon — don't  you  hear  them?" 

"It's  only  Gregg,"  he  said  impatiently.  "Come, 
Sally,  one,  jest  one,  before  he  gits  here!  Don't 
shrink  away  so — what'll  a  kiss  cost  you  ?  It'll  mean 
a  taste  of  heaven  to  me — somethin'  to  think  of  and 
live  over  and  over  when  I'm  lyin'  out  in  the  moun 
tains,  hunted,  likely,  like  a  wild  beast,  not  knowin' 
if  I'm  ever  to  see  you  again!  Sally,  Sally  darling, 
please !" 

My  head  was  on  his  breast,  his  cheek  against  my 
hair.  Gently  but  with  strength  irresistible  he  drew 
my  hands  from  before  my  face.  Then  his  lips 
sought  mine,  and  mine — how  can  I  write  it  ?  I  only 
know  that  all  my  life  it  will  keep  me  humble,  and 
silent  when  sinners  are  condemned,  and  bewil- 


264       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

deredly  aware  of  the  dark  unsounded  deeps  that  are 
in  all  of  us.  For  somehow  I  did  not  turn  away, 
but  in  a  strange  dreamy  acquiescence  let  my  lips 
meet  his.  Yes,  to  Brett  Morgan,  that  wild,  bad, 
dangerous  man,  all  unresisting,  unrefusing,  I 
yielded  up  my  lips.  Strange  moment!  differing 
from  all  other  moments  of  my  life  in  that  I  was  not 
Sally,  but  mere  generic  Woman,  vanquished  by  the 
passion  of  this  strong,  splendid,  lawless  male  crea 
ture.  A  moment  before  I  had  shrunk  from  him  in 
terror;  a  moment  after 

But  what  I  would  have  done  the  moment  after, 
supposing  it  to  have  brought  no  interruption,  I 
shall  never  know.  For  suddenly  Brett  Morgan 
started,  raised  his  head,  and  listened.  Again  the 
sound  of  hoofs  from  the  ravine — and  of  voices  in 
low-pitched  speech. 

"By  God,  there's  more  than  one!"  He  sprang 
to  his  feet,  ran  to  his  horse,  freed  it  and  was  at  my 
side  again.  He  caught  me  in  his  arms. 

"Good-by,  Sally  darling!  What  I  got  ahead  is 
too  rough  and  hard  for  you.  Don't  forget  I  love 
you,  and  won't  never  give  you  up,  never!" 

He  turned  to  spring  into  the  saddle.  But  already 
they  were  upon  us — mounted  men  scrambling  up 
swiftly  out  of  the  ravine.  I  saw  Joe,  and  Mr, 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT     265 

Hackett,  and  Jimmie.  I  saw  them  come  riding  at 
us,  shouting — and  I  saw  Brett  Morgan  snatch  his 
revolver  from  his  hip.  I  saw  him  aim  it  at  the  first 
of  the  advancing  men,  and  I  saw  that  the  man  was 
Joe.  I  leaped  at  him  and  caught  his  arm,  and  the 
revolver  swerved  in  the  instant  of  discharge.  Some 
one  shrieked,  some  one  tumbled  from  his  horse.  I 
only  knew  it  was  not  Joe — and  then  I  suddenly  went 
out. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

I  CAME  to  myself  to  find  my  hair  and  collar  very 
soppy  with  cold  water,  which  was  being  freely 
used  as  a  restorative  for  both  Jimmie  and  myself. 
Jimmie  it  was  who  had  fallen  before  Brett  Morgan's 
bullet — because  I  had  struck  up  the  revolver  to  save 
Joe.  His  injuries  were  not  desperate,  for  the  bullet, 
flying  wild,  had  no  more  than  nicked  the  skin  from 
his  upper  arm.  But  of  course  all  I  could  think  of 
then  was  how  pale  he  looked,  and  how  bloody,  and 
how  entirely  my  fault  it  was  that  he  was  hurt.  I 
got  to  my  feet  unsteadily  and  tottered  to  him  and 
sat  down,  taking  his  head  into  my  lap. 

"Oh,  Jimmie,  don't  die,  please  don't !"  I  begged. 
"What  will  your  mother  say?"  And  being  some 
what  shaken  on  my  own  account,  as  well  as  bowed 
down  with  self-reproach  because  of  Jimmie,  I 
began  to  weep. 

"That's  a'  ri',  Sally/'  he  murmured  weakly,  and 
in  the  full  conviction,  I  am  sure,  that  the  words 
were  his  last.  "Don'  blame  'self — mus'n'  feel  bad 

266 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        267 
about  it  too  long,  li'le  girl — give  my  love  to  mother 

"Oh,  don't,  Jimmie  dear,"  I  wailed.  Because 
Jimmie's  mother  is  just  the  person  to  make  things 
unpleasant  if  her  son  were  slaughtered  and  she 
blamed  you.  And  then  of  course  it  did  seem  too 
bad  about  Jimmie.  "Don't  die,  Jimmie  dear!  Mr. 
Hackett,  Joe,  please  don't  let  Jimmie  die !" 

Mr.  Hackett  stood  by  very  glum  and  silent — I 
supposed  vaguely  because  Brett  Morgan  had  got 
away.  For  he  had  got  away — my  first  swift  glance 
about  had  told  me  that.  And  Mr.  Hackett  looked 
as  though  my  rescue  by  no  means  atoned  for  the 
escape  of  the  man  who  had  disposed  of  him  so  sum 
marily  earlier  in  the  day. 

But  Joe  came  over  and  knelt  at  Jimmie's  side. 
Jimmie  opened  one  eye  a  very  little  and  closed  it 
again  weakly.  He  has  nice  eyelashes  and  has  been 
accused  of  knowing  it.  He  would  have  looked  very 
well  with  his  features  composed  to  their  present 
marble  calm,  if  only  his  nose  had  not  been  sun 
burned  to  the  peeling  point. 

"Don't  cry,  Sally,"  said  Joe,  with  a  sort  of  sober, 
distant  kindness,  "we'll  pull  him  through  for  you, 
of  course.  It's  really  only  a  trifling  flesh-wound" 
—  a  faint  quiver  of  annoyance  passed  over  Jimmie's 


268       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

pallid  countenance — "and  I  have  a  first-aid  kit 
among  my  things  in  camp  that  will  fix  him  up 
nicely." 

Here  in  contradiction  to  this  light  view  of  the 
matter  Jimmie  gasped  rather  dreadfully  and  mur 
mured,  "Don't  forget,  Sally,  my  love  to  mother — " 

"Come,  come,  Halliday,  buck  up!"  Joe  exhorted 
him  with  a  vigor  which  in  view  of  Jimmie's  pale 
still  face  and  lovely  eyelashes  seemed  positively  bru 
tal.  "You  can  give  your  love  to  your  mother  your 
self  a  week  from  now,  you  know.  Fellows  get 
worse  knock-outs  at  football  every  day." 

Football ! 

"As  if  football  were  anything  to  getting  shot — 
trying  to  save  me!"  I  choked.  And  of  course  I 
knew,  as  they  didn't,  that  it  was  practically  I  who 
had  shot  him. 

Joe  gave  me  a  long  sober  look. 

"Of  course,  Sally,  I  forgot,"  he  said  in  a  dull 
voice.  "Naturally  you  take  it  hard.  But  please 
believe  me  when  I  say  there's  no  danger." 

He  got  up  and  went  away.  Again  Jimmie 
weakly  raised  an  eyelid. 

"He — don' — understan' "  he  murmured  in  a 

faint  resigned  voice. 

"Understand?     Certainly  he  does!"     I  snapped. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       269 

"You  are  not  in  the  least  danger.  Nobody  dies  of 
a  scratch  like  this!"  Jimmie's  eyes — both  eyes — 
flew  wide  open  and  he  stared  up  at  me  like  an 
injured  baby.  I  did  not  care.  I  would  hold  his 
head  and  let  people  draw  what  inferences  they 
pleased,  but  I  wouldn't  listen  to  his  nonsense  any 
longer.  And  after  all  if  I  had  not  caught  Brett 
Morgan's  arm  it  might  have  been,  not  Jimmie  that 
was  scratched,  but  Joe  that  was  killed.  For  I  knew 
that  Brett  would  have  fired  with  deadly  aim. 

As  we  rode  back  to  camp  Mr.  Hackett  cross- 
examined  me  at  length  about  Brett  Morgan.  My 
story,  reduced  to  essentials,  could  be  told  in  a  few 
words.  I  knew  nothing  of  what  Eben  Gregg  had 
been  doing  in  the  cabin,  or  why  Brett  Morgan  had 
come  to  meet  him  there.-  I  knew  nothing  of  their 
plans  beyond  what  Mr.  Hackett  himself  knew,  that 
Morgan  had  expected  Gregg  to  join  him  at  the 
place  where  we  had  waited,  and  that  they  were  pre 
sumably  going  on  deeper  into  the  mountains. 
These  few  peaks  of  fact  were  all  that  emerged  from 
the  fog  of  bewilderment  and  mystery  in  wrhich,  for 
me,  the  affair  was  obscured.  The  history  of  those 
events  which  had  brought  Joe  and  Jimmie  and  Mr. 
Hackett,  instead  of  Eben  Gregg,  to  the  rendezvous 
I  did  not  hear  until  we  were  back  in  camp  where 


270       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FEAT 

Miss  LAippy  had  been  left  in  charge  of  the  bruised 
and  battered  comrade  of  Mr.  Hackett,  and  Kit, 
to  console  him  for  not  joining  in  the  man-hunt, 
had  been  left  in  charge  of  both.  But  already  he  had 
acquired  glory  enough  for  any  mortal  boy,  and  was 
in  a  blissfully  puffed-up  and  self-complacent  state 
in  consequence.  The  tale  as  it  came  from  his  own 
proud  lips  rang  like  a  saga.  To  give  only  its  out 
line,  Miss  Luppy,  deceived  at  first  by  the  artful 
disposition  of  my  blankets,  had  discovered  the  sub 
terfuge  by  and  by,  but  assumed,  as  I  had  expected, 
that  I  had  gone  to  bathe.  But  as  the  minutes  passed 
a  certain  uneasiness  prevailed.  It  was  a  mild  little 
river  that  ran  through  the  flat,  but  mild  little  rivers 
have  delusive  depths.  Kit,  therefore,  was  des 
patched  in  search  of  me. 

"You  see,  Sally,  I  naturally  got  worried,"  cut  in 
Jimmie  in  a  weak  voice.  He  had  been  plastered 
and  bandaged  by  Miss  Luppy,  and  was  now  doing 
the  invalid  becomingly.  He  had  moaned  a  little 
under  Miss  Luppy's  ministrations,  but  she  had 
exclaimed  unfeelingly,  "Shucks,  I've  give  myself 
worse  licks  many's  the  time  a-cuttin'  kindlin',  and 
never  went  on  like  a  pig  under  a  gate  on  account 
of  it,  neither."  So  Jimmie  had  thenceforth  borne 
his  sufferings  mutely. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        271 

"Huh,  it  was  Joe  sent  me,  though,"  returned  Kit. 
"Bundled  me  off  just  when  the  flapjacks  were 
ready — as  though  if  you  were  drowned  it  would  do 
any  good  for  me  to  hurry.  In  fact  when  things  like 
that  happen  is  the  very  time  you  ought  to  keep  your 
strength  up  by  eating.  Mr.  Cobb  says  so.  But  Joe 
said •" 

"Better  get  on  with  your  story,  son,"  remarked 
Joe  bruskly. 

Kit,  then,  turning  his  back  reluctantly  on  the 
flapjacks,  had  sallied  forth  in  search  of  my  remains, 
taking  the  path  through  the  wood  toward  the 
meadow  at  the  other  end  of  the  flat.  Personally 
he  didn't  take  much  stock  in  the  bathing  hy 
pothesis — icy  baths  before  sun-up  didn't  enter  into 
his  conception  of  me.  He  decided  that  I  had  framed 
it  up  to  put  something  over — thus  Kit — and  that  a 
reversal  of  the  process  was  desirable.  Hence  he  did 
not  shout  or  yodel  but  went  on  silently,  watching 
the  tracks  which  I  had  left  in  the  trail.  His  first 
glimpse  of  me  was  as  I  was  stealing  through  the 
wood  toward  the  bunk-house,  intent  on  the  rescue 
of  the  prisoners.  Much  mystified,  Kit  had  fol 
lowed,  and  on  my  entering  the  bunk-house  had 
slipped  into  the  brush  which  grew  beside  it  and 
applied  his  eye  to  a  convenient  crack.  Thus  he 


272       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

beheld  the  astonishing  spectacle  of  Mr.  Hackett  and 
his  companion  in  their  bonds,  and  of  myself  bent  evi 
dently  on  restoring  them  to  freedom.  Followed  the 
sudden  appearance  of  Brett  Morgan,  then,  culmina 
tion  of  all  astonishment,  that  of  Eben  Gregg.  Kit 
had  seen  enough  to  understand  that  something 
extraordinary  was  afoot.  Slipping  silently  from 
his  post  of  observation  he  had  made  for  camp  at  so 
brisk  a  pace  that  he  arrived  there  totally  beyond 
speech.  What  he  did  presently  gasp  out  was. 
according  to  Miss  Luppy,  altogether  unintelligible, 
but  it  was  enough  to  send  Joe  racing  to  the  meadow 
for  his  horse.  He  caught  it,  flung  himself  upon  it 
bareback,  and  was  away  before  Miss  Luppy  had 
got  beyond  the  catastrophe  of  the  frying-pan  left  on 
the  fire  and  the  flapjacks  burning  to  a  cinder.  Then 
Jimmie  dimly  understood  and  set  out  on  foot  down 
the  trail,  followed  by  Miss  Luppy  and  passed  in  a 
moment  by  Kit  galloping  madly  on  Black  Bart. 

Brett  Morgan  and  I  had  already  disappeared 
when  Joe  reached  the  bunk-house.  He  found  there 
Eben  Gregg  in  the  act  of  replacing  some  planks 
in  the  floor.  At  a  pistol's  point  Joe  backed  him  into 
a  corner  and  disarmed  him,  then  ordered  him  to 
take  up  the  planks.  In  a  space  beneath  were,  beside 
the  kegs  which  had  been  hidden  there  earlier  in  the 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        273 

morning,  the  gagged  and  bound  men.  No  sooner 
was  the  gag  removed  from  Mr.  Hackett' s  lips  than 
he  began  the  story  of  my  abduction  by  Brett 
Morgan.  Taking  advantage  of  the  momentary 
diversion  thus  created,  Gregg  slipped  out,  ran  to 
the  horse  waiting  before  the  cabin,  and  escaped, 
taking  the  trail  to  the  west  instead  of  the  steep  east 
ward  way  that  Morgan  and  I  were  climbing.  He 
calculated  well,  for  no  one  troubled  to  pursue  him. 
Kit  was  sent  back  at  top  speed  for  Jimmie's  mount 
and  all  three  saddles,  then  made  to  surrender  Black 
Bart  to  Mr.  Hackett.  This  deliberateness  of  prep- 
paration  was  by  Mr.  Hackett's  advice.  He  pointed 
out  that  Morgan  had  a  good  start,  good  horses,  and 
knew  the  country.  The  chase  might  be  long  and 
hard,  and  they  would  gain  in  the  end  by  setting 
out  properly  mounted.  It  was  Morgan's  long  wait 
for  Eben  Gregg  which  had  nearly  betrayed  him  into 
their  hands.  At  least,  thus  the  matter  stood  osten 
sibly.  In  my  heart  I  knew  that  his  indifference  to 
the  flight  of  time,  his  forgetfulness  of  danger,  had 
had  another  cause.  If  Joe  or  Mr.  Hackett  knew 
this  also,  neither  spoke  of  it.  As  for  myself,  the 
name  of  the  man  whose  kiss  still  burned  on  my  lips 
passed  them  reluctantly  and  seldom. 

Eben  Gregg  had  consoled  Mr.  Hackett  and  his 


274       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

companion,  whose  name  was  Gamble,  as  he  interred 
them  in  their  living  grave,  by  the  assurance  that  by 
and  by  I  would  be  released  and  sent  back  to  their 
rescue.  This  would  allow  the  fugitives,  supposing 
my  compulsory  journey  to  have  lasted  half  a  day,  a 
full  day's  start.  The  plan,  of  course,  had  been  frus 
trated  through  the  agency  of  Kit.  Would  it  other 
wise  have  been  carried  out  and  I  allowed  to  return  ? 
I  have  wondered  often,  but  the  answer  I  shall  never 
know.  It  was  the  secret  of  one  heart  alone. 

"And  Mr.  Hackett  says  the  whisky  would  be 
worth  a  good  thousand  dollars  a  keg  if  they  could 
have  got  it  over  into  Nevada,  where  the  lid's  been 
on  so  long  that  folks  are  as  dry  as  desiccated  cod 
fish,"  concluded  Kit.  "And  he  says  they  did 
smuggle  some  over  already,  and  have  money  in 
their  belts  so  they  can  get  away  to  China  or  any 
where." 

Of  course.  I  tried  to  look  as  if  I  had  known  it 
all  the  while.  Gregg  and  Brett  Morgan  had  been 
smuggling  whisky  across  the  line  into  Nevada,  and 
the  cabin  was  a  station  on  the  way  from  Bandy's 
Flat.  It  was  all  perfectly  simple  now,  only 

"But  where  did  they  get  the  whisky  in  the  first 
place,  Mr.  Hackett?"  I  asked.  "Do  you  suppose 
Ben  Moody  of  the  Bonanza  House  was  in  it  ?" 


'FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT      275 

"No,  Ben's  quite  innocent.  It  was  from  some 
other  source  entirely — what  source  is  a  question 
which  might  be  worth  looking  into/' 

"You  mean  you  don't  know  where  they  got  it?" 
He  looked  at  me  consideringly.  "Well,"  he  said 
at  last,  "I  suspect  I  ought  to  answer  you  as  straight 
as  I  can,  seeing  it  was  you  that — without  meaning 
to,  of  course — gave  me  my  first  tip.  Those  horse- 
tracks  in  the  mine  that  you  were  looking  at  that 
day,  wondering,  naturally,  how  they  came  to  be 
there,  those  tracks,  which  I  mightn't  have  got  on  to 
right  away  by  myself,  gave  me  a  good  hunch.  I 
watched  the  place  that  night  and  the  next,  and 
the  second  night  I  saw  Morgan — whom  I  hadn't 
happened  to  see  round  town  yet — bring  up 
the  string  of  horses  and  load  them  with  the  kegs 
that  he  carried  one  by  one  down  the  path  from 
the  top  of  the  cliff.  Of  course  I  meant  on  the 
next  occasion  to  watch  the  top  of  the  path  instead  of 
the  bottom,  which  might  have  given  me  a  line  on 
where  he  got  the  stuff,  but  before  he  made  another 
trip  I  had  been  elected  an  undesirable  citizen  and 
respectfully  invited  to  leave  town."  Mr.  Hackett 
turned  the  corner  of  an  eye  on  Miss  Luppy,  who 
looked  uncomfortable.  "But  if  I  had  had  the 
chance,  I  rather  suspect  I  would  have  trailed  Mor- 


276       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

gan — to  a  place  about  fifty  feet  from  the  top  of 
that  same  path." 

"You  mean  to  the  old  saloon?"  Involuntarily  I 
glanced  at  Joe.  He  was  sitting  with  folded  arms 
and  bitten  lips,  his  intent,  half-frowning  gaze  on 
Mr.  Hackett.  As  I  turned  my  eyes  on  him  he  made 
a  sudden  move  as  if  to  speak,  but  Miss  Luppy  was 
before  him. 

"Look  a'here,  Sally  Armsby,  I'll  thank  you  to 
remember  you're  speaking  of  my  property,"  she  said 
severely.  "There  ain't  been  a  drop  o'  liquor  in  that 
buildin'  to  my  certain  knowledge  this  twenty  years 
and  more.  Why,  you  been  through  the  place  your 
self,  ain't  you,  you  and  Joe,  and  poke^d  round  every- 
wheres — I  remember  you  tellin'  me — and  what  sign 
o'  whisky  did  you  find,  I'd  like  to  know?  Could 
all  them  kegs,  not  to  speak  o'  the  others  Mr.  Hack 
ett  here  says  has  been  took  over  the  line  already, 
have  been  right  there  and  you  not  seen  'em?  Joe's 
got  a  better  eye,  not  to  say  nose,  for  whisky  than 
that  comes  to,  I  bet."  She  appealed  to  him.  "Joe, 
do  you  jest  please  put  it  out'n  Sally's  head  that  I 
been  keepin'  whisky  on  my  premises,  and  me  a 
White  Ribboner  from  way  back." 

"There  wras  certainly  no  whisky  there  when  I 
went  through  the  building,"  Joe  confirmed.  "And 


'FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT   277 

it's  pretty  certain  that  no  such  quantity  can  have 
been  smuggled  in  since.  Kegs  of  whisky  by  the 
half-dozen  aren't  carried  about  the  country  with 
impunity  these  days.  No,  of  myself  I  should  have 
been  inclined  to  think  Ben  Moody  was  getting  rid 
of  his  unsold  stock,  at  much  better  prices  than  he 
could  command  hereabouts." 

Mr.  Hackett  shook  his  head. 

"No,  it  ain't  Ben.  I  proved  that  to  my  own  satis 
faction  right  at  the  start.  And  of  course,  Miss 
L'uppy,  I  knew  beforehand  there  wasn't  any  liquor 
stored  on  your  property  that  you  was  wise  to.  But 
suppose  you  wasn't  wise?  This  young  Morgan's 
father  kept  bar  for  old  Bates,  I  understand " 

Miss  Luppy  interrupted  sharply.  "I  tell  you, 
I've  aired  and  swep'  that  place  out  reg'lar  once  a 
year  in  the  more/n  twenty  since  I  came  to  Bandy's, 
and  there  couldn't  any  stock  o'  liquor  been  layin' 
by  there  that  I  wouldn't  'a'  seen.  I'll  thank  you  to 
turn  your  suspicions  elsewhere,  if  you  please,  sir!" 

"Well,  it's  likely  enough  I'm  wrong;  I  ain't  dis~ 
putin'  it,"  he  said  placably.  "I  guess  it  was  just  it's 
having  been  a  saloon  once,  and  handy  to  the  top  of 
the  path,  that  made  me  pitch  on  it  as  a  likely  place 
for  the  liquor  to  have  come  from.  No  offense 
meant,  m'am,  and  none  taken,  I  hope?" 


278       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Miss  Luppy  made  an  indefinite  sound  which 
might  have  been  interpreted  as  assent,  though  her 
aspect  remained  unbending.  For  myself,  I  sighed  a 
little  to  think  that  the  solution  of  the  mystery  was  not 
yet,  and  that  to  speak  of  the  light  I  had  seen  in 
the  old  building  that  night  might  be  to  meddle  in  a 
secret  that  was  Joe's.  But  as  I  sat  pondering  a 
sudden  recollection  came  to  me. 

"Mr.  Hackett,"  I  asked,  "why  did  you  say  to 
Eben  Gregg,  'It's  not  you  I  want,  it's  him?'  Why 
wasn't  it  as  important  to  get  one  as  the  other?" 

Mr.  Hackett's  face  changed  oddly,  so  oddly  that 
again  I  saw  Joe  look  at  him  attentively.  It  was 
only  momentary.  Mr.  Hackett  was  his  collected, 
tepid  self  again  when  after  the  briefest  possible 
interval  he  replied: 

"Well,  Morgan's  the  brains  of  the  scheme,  of 
course,  not  to  say  its  bone  and  muscle  too.  There 
ain't  any  doubt  it  was  he  got  Gregg  into  this — 
Gregg'd  be  sitting  at  home  now  peaceable  enough  if 
Morgan  hadn't  picked  on  him  as  a  good  one  to 
help — because  Gregg  ain't  a  drinker  and  could  be 
trusted  with  the  whisky,  I  suppose.  No,  the  fellow 
to  nab,  while  you're  nabbing,  is  the  fellow  that 
starts  things  to  going,  not  the  one  that  has  to  be  led 
or  prodded  into  helping  'em  along.  Besides,  I 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        279 

wasn't  telling  my  heart's  secrets  to  Gregg  just  then. 
If  I  could  have  made  him  think  it  was  that  way — " 

"And  were  you  waiting  for  your  prey  when  I 
saw  you  yesterday  morning  at  Little  York?"  I 
said  this  with  intention,  and  my  heart  stopped  beat 
ing  while  I  paused  for  the  result.  It  came  in  the 
shape  of  exclamations — from  every  one  but  Joe. 
Joe  said  nothing. 

"My  land,  Sally,  why  didn't  you  speak  up?" 
demanded  Miss  Luppy  irritably.  "You  comin' 
back  white  as  plaster  and  not  a  word  out  of  you — 
what  could  a  body  think?" 

What  a  body  had  thought  I  knew  very  well. 
And  some  one  was  still  thinking — of  how  I  had  sat 
with  Jimmie's  head  in  my  lap  and  cried  over  him. 

"If  Miss  Sally  didn't  speak  up  then  she  is  that 
rare  ornament  to  her  sex,  a  woman  who  can  keep  a 
secret,"  said  Mr.  Hackett  with  approval.  "I  kind 
of  counted  on  her  not  doing  it,  to  tell  the  truth, 
because  when  I  motioned  to  her  that  mum  was  the 
word  she  nodded  like  she  understood  and  meant  to 
stand  by  me,  and  I  had  a  notion  she  was  the  sort  to 
keep  a  promise.  Yes,  Gamble  and  I  were  lying  low 
there,  our  horses  hid  in  the  brush  higher  up  the  hill, 
waiting  till  Morgan  should  come  by.  I  didn't 
expect  him  till  night,  of  course,  and  it  was  a  big 


28o       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

surprise  when  we  heard  the  trampling  of  horses  and 
the  voices.  It  was  getting'  too  curious  that  gave  me 
away,  and  might  have  broken  up  the  whole  game  if 
Miss  Sally  hadn't  held  her  tongue  like  the  trump 
she  is." 

"How  'did  Morgan  manage  about  his  horses?" 
asked  Joe,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"After  you  cross  the  river  from  the  Flat,  if  you 
turn  to  the  left  instead  of  starting  to  climb  the  hill, 
and  go  through  a  little  draw  and  then  about  a 
quarter-mile  through  the  woods,  you  come  to  a 
meadow  that  was  used  sometime  as  a  corral,  judg 
ing  by  the  broken  fence  around  it.  Morgan  had 
mended  the  fence  and  kept  his  horses  there.  Good 
horses,  too — that  one  he  rode  himself  was  a  dandy." 

"Must  V  cost  him  a  pretty  penny  for  the  lot  of 
'em,"  commented  Miss  Luppy.  "Wonder  where 
he  got  it?" 

Mr.  Hackett  shrugged.  "Shooting  craps,  may 
be,"  he  said  lightly.  "And  now,  young  man" — he 
turned  suddenly  to  the  round-eyed  Kit — "you  and 
I  have  passed  many  a  sportive  hour  in  company — 
sportive  at  least  on  my  part,  for  on  yours  there  was 
the  gloom  of  one  brought  into  enforced  association 
with  a  party  of  questionable  character.  But  there 
were  other  hours,  not  so  sportive,  when  I  found  con- 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        281 

siderable  difficulty  in  following  up  a  certain  party's 
trail  because  you  were  camped  on  mine.  May  I, 
under  the  present  happy  conditions  of,  I  trust, 
mutual  confidence  and  allayed  suspicion,  ask  why?" 

"Because — because  I  thought  you  were  a  slickens 
man,"  stammered  the  confounded  Kit. 

Mr.  Hackett  looked  round  upon  us  with  a  gesture 
of  despair. 

"And  Miss  Luppy  runs  me  out  of  town — prevent 
ing,  I  don't  doubt,  a  similar  attention  from  parties 
who  would  have  been  a  good  deal  more  abrupt 
about  it — for  the  same  reason.  Yet  neither  of  'em 
has  so  much  as  given  me  a  chance  to  put  the  ques 
tion,  if  I  am  a  slickens  man  what  am  If" 

"I  don't  know,"  confessed  Kit,  at  whom  he 
pointed  an  inquisitorial  forefinger,  and  whose 
humiliation  at  this  public  acknowledgment  of  his 
ignorance  was  obviously  deep. 

Mr.  Hackett  looked  more  despairing  still. 

"And  you,  m'am" —  he  turned  to  Miss  Luppy — 
"you  too  will  accuse  a  fellow-being  of  some  deep 
dark  crime  which  makes  him  unfit  for  human  inter 
course — oh,  yes,  you  told  me  yourself  that  a  slickens 
man  was  too  mean  to  live,  and  that  you  didn't  know 
why  you  should  be  helping  one  to  get  away,  and 
that  you  wished  me  a  decent  trade  before  I  was 


282        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

much  older,  though  land  knew  I  was  old  enough  to 
know  better  now.  And  then  you  sent  me  off  con 
vinced  I  was  about  the  lowest,  orneriest  specimen  of 
the  human  race  extant  upon  the  globe,  but  still  won 
dering  in  the  depths  of  a  stricken  bosom — why,  oh, 
why?" 

"Nonsense!"  snapped  Miss  Luppy,  who  had 
grown  very  red  during  this  recital.  "O'  course  as 
soon  as  I  found  out  you  was  trackin'  Brett  and 
Eben  Gregg  I  knowed  you  warn't  a  slickens  man. 
I  guess  'twas  Brett  that  done  the  most  to  help  along 
the  notion  that  you  was  one,  not  carin'  to  have  a 
spyin'  sort  of  stranger  round  town.  As  to  what  a 
slickens  man  is" — she  hesitated — "well,  I  don't 
know  as  I've  any  call  to  tell  you,  beyond  that  folks 
what  has  had  their  livin'  took  from  'em  by  a  law 
made  to  suit  the  farmers,  what  have  everything 
their  way  these  days,  though  'twas  minin'  made 
California  and  everybody  knows  it — well,  if  those 
folks  chose  to  do  a  little  quiet  work  that  didn't  hurt 
nobody,  'cause  not  enough  debris  went  down-stream 
to  matter,  and  if  'twas  the  only  way  o'  livin'  the  most 
of  'em  had,  why,  then  if  parties  come  up  now  and 
then  makin'  out  their  business  was  this  or  that, 
when  'twarn't  only  to  spy  out  and  git  evidence  of 
minin'  bein'  done  ag'in'  the  law,  why  they  wouldn't 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        283 

be  liable  to  be  popular,  would  they?  I  seen  sights 
myself — ridin'  on  a  rail,  tar-and-featherin'  and 
what-not — that  I  don't  ever  want  to  see  again.  And 
besides  when  a  man  has  sat  at  your  table  and  et 
your  salt,  and  has  a  real  natural  gift  for  sayin'  off 

poetry " 

"Say  no  more,  Miss  Luppy,"  said  Mr.  Hackett, 
looking  a  quite  genuine  contrition.  "I  quite  share 
your  opinion  of  a  slickens  man  as  a  creature  fit  only, 
as  the  poet  says,  for  treasons,  stratagems  and  spoils. 
Let  me  thank  you  once  more,  m'am,  for  saving  me 
from  the  fate  such  a  being  would  deserve.  As  to 
the  Flat,  it  may  pursue  the  even  tenor  of  its  way 
for  all  of  me.  I  detect  what  Fm  hired  to;  on  my 
non-professional  side  Fve  got  an  accommodatingly 
blind  eye  for  human  frailty." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

jVTEXT  morning  we  turned  our  faces  toward 
•*•  ^  Bandy's  Flat.  As  a  result  of  these  experiences, 
unanimity  of  opinion  for  the  first  time  prevailed 
among  us ;  everybody  wanted  to  go  home.  Jimmie 
wanted  to,  with  an  intensity  quite  pathetic.  Natur 
ally  as  things  had  turned  out  he  was  glad  he  had 
been  here  to  protect  me,  and  of  course  I  was  not  to 
blame  myself,  but  did  I  think  a  one-armed  man 
could  play  polo?  I  said  ruthlessly  I  didn't,  and 
turned  away.  Everybody  now  seemed  to  take 
things  so  for  granted  about  Jimmie  and  me  that  I 
was  continually  finding  myself  alone  with  him. 
People  just  sheered  off  and  left  us  to  each  other. 
And  Miss  Luppy  treated  Joe  so  tenderly  that  it  was 
like  a  death  in  the  family. 

Miss  Luppy  said  she  wanted  to  go  home  because 
Asa  Cobb  might  neglect  the  chickens.  Kit  wanted 
to  go  home  to  relate  these  high  adventures  to  Asa 
Cobb.  Joe  Lambert  wanted  to  go  home — as  I 
inferred — to  get  off  the  sooner  to  South  America. 

284 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       285 

And  I  wanted  to  go  home  for  a  variety  of  reasons, 
but  chiefly  because  in  camp  there  is  no  place  where 
one  can  be  miserable  in  solitude. 

The  return  trip  was  uneventful.  Mr.  Hackett 
and  the  battered  Mr.  Gamble  accompanied  us,  and 
rode  boldly  into  town  to  the  Bonanza  House,  where 
they  were  to  stay  that  night.  As  concerned  with 
the  enforcement  of  the  Dry  Law,  Mr.  Hackett  was 
not  in  line  to  achieve  the  highest  popularity,  but  was 
still  many  removes  from  that  outcast  and  pariah,  a 
slickens  man. 

Before  departing  for  Golconda  next  morning  Mr. 
Hackett  called  to  say  good-by.  Miss  Luppy 
received  him  with  a  good  deal  of  ceremony,  and  at 
once  made  him  a  formal  tender  of  the  key  of  the 
old  saloon,  with  the  request  that  he  make  search  of 
the  premises  to  assure  himself  that  no  whisky  was 
concealed  thereon.  Joe,  who  was  present,  flushed 
suddenly.  Mr.  Hackett,  after  waving  away  all 
possible  suspicions  of  Miss  Luppy  or  her  property, 
accepted  the  key,  with  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction,  I 
thought,  and  accompanied  by  Miss  Luppy  and  Joe 
went  across  the  street  to  the  old  building.  I,  as 
usual,  was  relegated  to  the  society  of  Jimmie,  and 
submitted  to  staying  behind  because  the  alterna 
tive  was  to  take  him  with  me. 


286       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

But  the  trio  returned  very  soon,  with  the  surpris 
ing  information  that  the  key  would  not  open  the 
door. 

"And  for  the  very  good  reason  that  it  warn't 
never  made  to  fit  it,"  remarked  Miss  Luppy,  whose 
brow  was  dark.  "Somebody,  since  last  that  key 
was  used — that  day  you  and  Sally  was  over  there,  I 
guess  it  was,  Joe — has  been  and  borrered  that  there 
key  off'n  the  nail  without  ever  troublin'  to  ask  leave, 
and  has  kep'  it  by  Jem  ever  since.  And  the  owner 
of  the  property,  that  has  paid  taxes  on  it  these 
twenty  years  and  never  got  back  a  cent  in  rent,  can 
set  outside  a-twiddlin'  her  thumbs,  I  expect."  Here 
she  looked  at  Mr.  Hackett,  and  if  ever  suspicion 
glared  from  mortal  eye  it  did  from  hers.  But  the 
imperturbable  Mr.  Hackett  sustained  the  glance 
coolly.  Joe,  on  the  other  hand,  looked  thoughtful — 
bothered  wouldn't  have  been  too  strong  a  word. 
Turning  his  back  rather  suddenly,  he  went  out  by 
the  side  door  into  the  garden,  where  Mr.  Hackett, 
after  shaking  hands  all  round — even  with  Miss 
Luppy — presently  joined  him.  For  a  long  while 
they  talked  together  in  a  fashion  seemingly  confi 
dential,  and  then  the  emissary  of  the  law  departed. 
Having  seen  the  last  of  him  from  the  sitting-room 
window,  Miss  Luppy  put  on  her  sunbonnet  and 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        287 

went  down  the  road  to  Mrs.  Morgan's,  returning 
some  time  later  very  short-tempered  and  red-eyed. 
And  Lorena  Pettis  came,  also  red-eyed,  and  was 
closeted  with  Miss  Luppy  in  the  kitchen,  and  went 
away  more  red-eyed  still. 

Following  his  interview  with  Mr.  Hackett,  Joe 
left  for  the  dam.  Our  good-bys  were  said  before 
the  others,  very  lightly  on  my  part,  very  quietly  on 
his.  I  felt  Miss  Luppy's  eye  on  me,  and  it  nerved 
me  to  my  part. 

"Good-by,  Joe."  My  voice  had  a  cool,  gay  little 
tinkle  to  it  like  ice  on  crystal. 

"Good-by,  Sally."  It  was  just  Joe's  every-day 
tone.  His  blue  eyes  looked  straight  into  mine  for 
a  moment,  then  he  dropped  my  hand  and  was  gone. 

Shall  I  own  it?  When  Joe  and  Grumpy  got  to 
the  gate  I  was  there  before  them. 

"Joe,"  I  said,  as  he  stood  at  the  pony's  head,  his 
hand  on  the  gate,  looking  down  on  me  with  a  quiet 
waiting  air,  "Joe " 

"Yes,  Sally?"  There  was  a  grave,  elder-brother 
sort  of  kindness  in  his  tone.  If  he  had  been  rude 
and  hateful — if  one  could  have  struck  a  spark  from 
him  somehow!  But  just  that  hopeless,  chilling 
kindness ! 

"Joe,"  I  hurried  on,  "I'm — I'm  afraid  I've  never 


288       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

thanked  you  properly — for  risking  your  life  in  com 
ing  to  save  me  from  Brett  Morgan.  I — I  do  thank 
you,  Joe!" 

He  smiled.  It  was  exactly  the  smile  you  might 
give  a  child  who  had  broken  something  infinitely 
precious  and  utterly  irreplaceable,  and  then  came 
offering  you  its  doll  in  atonement. 

"Don't  think  any  more  about  it,  please,  Sally.  I 
had  no  more  hand  in  it  than  Hackett  and  Halliday, 
you  know/' 

"But  Joe,  it  was  you  he  hated " 

"Hated?     Why?" 

Too  late  I  saw  my  mistake.  "Oh,  because — 
because  he  thought "  I  stammered. 

I  read  comprehension  in  his  eyes.  "I  see,"  he 
said  gravely.  "But  then  the  bullet  knew  better — it 
got  the  right  man.  I'm  sorry  for  that,  of  course. 
But  he'll  be  well  in  no  time,  you  know.  Good-by." 

He  was  going,  with  that  for  all  his  farewell. 
But  on  a  last  desperate  impulse  I  put  out  my  hand. 
He  took  it  half  hesitatingly — almost,  it  seemed, 
reluctantly. 

"We  shall  see  you  again,  Joe  ?"  Utterly  flat  and 
conventional  it  sounded,  but  then  somehow  or  other 
I  had  to  keep  the  quiver  from  my  voice. 

"I  think  not.     I  shall  be  through  at  the  dam  very 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        289 

soon  now,  and  then  I  must  be  off  in  a  hurry.  The 
South  American  contract  is  waiting  for  me  to  sign. 
I  shall  take  the  first  steamer  I  can  get." 

He  was  gone.  I  stood  alone  at  the  gate,  watch 
ing  him  ride  away. 

The  next  departure  was  Jimmie's,  and  that  too 
was  final,  as  final  as  No!  many  times  reiterated 
could  make  it.  I  wouldn't  have  believed  that  one 
short  decisive  word  could  require  so  much  repeat 
ing.  But  if  people  will  be  so  obtuse  can  it  really  be 
called  temper  if  you  end  by  stamping  your  foot  at 
them  ?  I  should  describe  it  myself  as  merely  adding 
the  necessary  emphasis.  But  Jimmie  said  it  cast  a 
new  light  on  my  disposition,  and  that  Honora 
Jones  was  at  Santa  Barbara  and  had  that  sweet 
nature  which  really  attracted  a  man.  Of  course 
passing  fancies  were  all  very  well 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad,  Jimmie !"  I  said  encouragingly. 
"Why,  I've  had  Honora  picked  out  for  you  for  ever 
so  long!  Only  I  was  so  afraid  you'd  never  happen 
to  think  of  her.  How  did  you,  I  wonder — unless  it 
was  telepathy?" 

Of  course  afterward  I  was  horribly  ashamed  of 
this,  because  Honora  has  always  been  decent  enough 
to  me  in  her  way.  And  it  is  true  that  I  had  thought 
of  Honora  for  Jimmie,  because  I  knew  she  would 


290       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

be  so  grateful,  poor  thing.  But  I  hadn't  expected 
him  to  think  of  her,  at  least  not  for  ever  so  long, 
and  then  with  me  hovering  over  them  and  helping 
the  thing  along,  so  that  they  would  both  perfectly 
understand  how  much  they  owed  me.  It  seemed 
hardly  decent  of  Jimmie  to  jump  so  to  conclusions 
about  her  on  his  own  account,  and  in  practically  the 
same  breath  with  proposing  to  me. 

At  any  rate  he  departed,  with  a  man  from  Gol- 
conda  to  drive  him,  and  his  emotions,  what  with 
Honora  and  me,  in  a  state  only  to  be  described  as 
chaotic.  And  with  these  two  farewells  I  felt  that 
I  had  shut  the  door  finally  and  forever  on  my  youth. 
Life  stretched  before  me  as  an  arid  desert  of  middle- 
age,  wherein  I  must  make  it  my  business  to  trudge 
on  valiantly.  No  more  rainbows  bright  with  prom 
ise,  only  the  clear  gray  light  of  a  sunless  day. 

And  now  I  come  to  the  event  which  was  to 
dethrone  Asa  Cobb  and  cast  Kit  forth  like  a  rud 
derless  boat  on  dreary  seas  of  disillusionment. 

Kit  and  I  were  waiting  on  the  side  porch  for 
supper  when  I  observed  Asa  Cobb  on  his  way  to  the 
kitchen  door.  He  had  a  soapy,  shiny  look  about 
him  so  indicative  of  recent  scrubbing  that  I  won 
dered  whether  this  were  Saturday  night,  and  then 
knew  it  was  not,  and  marveled  a  little  at  such  week- 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        291 

day  smartness.  Also,  he  bore  in  his  hand  a  bou 
quet  of  the  old-fashioned  flowers  of  which  he  had 
a  bright  bed  or  two  in  his  garden,  plucked  with 
stems  so  short  that  they  came  barely  within  grip  of 
his  horny  hand.  In  this  festive  guise  Mr.  Cobb 
passed  around  to  the  back  door,  and  from  my  mind. 
I  heard  voices  presently,  his  and  Miss  Luppy's,  but 
my  thoughts  were  busy  elsewhere.  As  for  Kit,  he 
was  reading  absorbedly,  all  unconscious  of  the 
blow  that  was  preparing.  I  don't  know  what  space 
of  time  elapsed  before  we  were  roused,  he  from  his 
book  and  I  from  my  reflections,  by  the  suddenly 
raised  voice  of  Miss  Luppy. 

"My  laws  a-massy,  Asa  Cobb,  is  it  me  that's  lost 
my  hearin'  or  you  your  wits?" 

"We  ain't  neither  of  us  lost  nothin',  that  I  know 
of/'  replied  Mr.  Cobb  firmly.  "I  made  you  a  plain 
proposition,  that's  all,  which  is  for  us  two  neighbors 
to  quit  livin'  separate  like  we  have  these  twenty 
years  and  more  and  live  together — makin'  all 
reg'lar  with  a  ceremony,  o'  course.  We'll  have  a 
minister  if  you  say  so,  though  my  vote  would  be  for 
the  justice  at  Golconda,  bein'  as  a  couple  o'  dollars 
would  satisfy  him,  and  a  preacher'd  likely  expect 
more.  But  I  ain't  one  to  hold  out  on  a  small  p'int 
like  that,  and  so  Martha  Cobb  could  tell  you  if  she 


292        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

was  here  now.  Whatever  our  fallings  out  about 
religion,  she  would  tell  you,  Miss  Luppy,  supposing 
that  is,  that  she  was  in  the  humor  to,  that  I  warn't 
never  one  to  git  to  arguin'  with  a  lady  over  feein' 
the  minister  to  marry  us.  Mis'  Cobb,  she  had  it  all 
her  own  way  at  the  first  ceremony — she  warn't  a 
Peculiar  then — and  you're  welcome  to  have  it  all 
yours  at  the  second." 

"Asa  Cobb,"  came  from  Miss  Luppy  in  deadly 
tones,  "me  and  you  has  knowed  one  another  twen 
ty-two  years  this  last  fourth  o'  May,  bein'  as  'twas 
you  wheel-barrered  my  traps  up  from  the  store 
where  the  hoss-stage  left  'em,  and  in  all  that  time 
you  ain't  never  acted  before  like  you  had  an  eye 
to  me  otherwise  than  as  one  neighbor  to  another. 
Be  I  changed  for  the  better?  Be  I  younger  and 
han'somer?  Or  be  you  struck  with  softenin'  o'  the 
brain?" 

"None  o'  the  three,  that  I  know  of,"  replied  Mr. 
Cobb  stoutly.  "I  always  looked  on  you  with 
respect,  Miss  Luppy,  and  that  you  well  know.  But 
up  to  this  day  a  week  since  there  ain't  been  a  time 
in  them  twenty-two  years  that  I  have  set  down  to 
a  meal  in  your  house,  which  I  don't  throw  it  up  to 
you,  there  not  bein'  no  call;  and  as  a  consequence 
i.t  can't  be  said  I  ever  seen  you  at  your  best.  There's 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       293 

women  shines  one  way,  Miss  Luppy,  and  there's 
women  shines  another,  and  it  ain't  till  a  man  sees 
'em  in  that  light  that  he  knows  the  worth  of  'em. 
Havin'  et  your  cookin',  Miss  Luppy,  I  can  truly  say 
I've  looked  at  you  with  my  eyes  open  for  the  fust 
time.  There  ain't  been  a  meal  since  but  I've  thought 
o'  the  senselessness  o'  two  parties  livin'  right  clost 
by  this  way  and  yet  eatin'  separate.  Where's  the  use, 
thinks  I,  in  her  payin'  out  money  for  me  to  do  the 
chores  around  the  place,  and  in  me  messin'  with 
victuals  which  you  might  call  'em  sp'iled  compared 
with  what  they'd  be  if  she  had  the  handlin'  of  'em, 
when  we  might  as  well  be  h;  Ivin'  our  troubles  and 
combinin'  our  joys  by  doublin'  up?  I'm  a  plain  man. 
Miss  Luppy,  likewise  as  you're  a  plain — I  mean  a 
commonsensible  woman.  I  ain't  aimed  to  do  no  fancy 
lovemakin',  'cause  it  ain't  suited  to  the  case.  I  jest 
lay  it  plain  and  straight  before  you — me  to  do  the 
chores  and  you  the  cookin',  and  help  each  other 
down  the  declinm'  vale.  Miss  Luppy,  say  the 
word!" 

"Say  the  word?  I  will,  and  the  word  is,  git!" 
cried  Miss  Luppy  furiously.  "Git,  Asa  Cobb,  and 
don't  set  foot  on  my  land  again  till  you  are  rid  o' 
the  biggest  fool  notion  that  ever  come  into  your 
oJd  noodle-head.  Even  if  I'd  a  notion  to  you, 


294       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

which  I  ain't,  I  don't  hold  with  marryin'  nor  givin' 
in  marriage  at  my  time  o'  life.  If  you  want  to  go 
on  doin'  the  chores,  all  right,  but  'twill  be  for 
wages,  same  as  always,  and  with  the  understandin' 
that  if  ever  you  feel  like  you're  liable  to  break  out 
courtin'  you're  to  stay  on  your  own  side  o'  the 
fence.  And  now  good  evenin',  for  I  smell  the  bis 
cuits  burnin'." 

The  screen-door  banged,  and  the  Departing  foot 
steps  of  Mr.  Cobb  echoed  on  the  walk.  Kit  and  I 
had  sat  throughout  this  dialogue  staring  into  each 
other's  astounded  faces.  Now,  very  red,  he  got  up 
suddenly,  turned  his  back  on  me,  and  with  hands 
thrust  deep  into  his  pockets  stood  staring  out  into 
the  garden,  whistling  ostentatiously.  I  understood 
and  respected  his  emotion,  and  sat  in  silent  sympa 
thy  until  Miss  Luppy,  also  rather  warm  and  agi 
tated,  appeared  with  the  plate  of  biscuits.  The 
meal  in  the  nature  of  things  was  melancholy.  Miss 
Luppy  and  I  had  each  a  rejected  suitor  on  our  con 
science,  and  Kit  was  contemplating  an  empty  shrine 
and  the  fragments  of  a  shattered  idol. 


CHAPTER  XX 

*  I  ^HE  days  crept  by  heavily.  The  hope  with 
A  which  I  had  cheated  myself — that  some  day  I 
should  hear  from  the  gate  the  whinny  of  the 
Grumpy-horse,  and  run  out  to  meet  some  one  whose 
blue  eyes  greeted  me  as  once  they  had — died  pain 
fully  but  surely.  I  knew  that  the  brief  farewell  with 
which  we  had  parted  had  been  final,  that  Joe  would 
never  come  again  to  Bandy's  Flat,  but  would  go 
straight  from  the  dam,  which  every  day  brought 
nearer  to  completion,  to  sign  the  contract  in  San 
Francisco  and  take  ship  for  South  America.  And 
then  I  began  to  wonder  every  morning,  was  the 
work  finished  now,  and  was  this  the  day  that  Joe 
would  leave  behind  him  forever  the  mountains,  and 
Bandy's  Flat,  and  me? 

Meanwhile  in  the  little  town  time  drifted  on  in 
its  usual  slumberous  fashion.  Nothing,  so  far  as  I 
could  discover,  had  been  heard  of  Brett  Morgan,  and 
mingled  with  the  dread  which  came  with  the  thought 
of  him  was  a  strange  anxiety  and  apprehension  on 

295 


296       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

his  account.  Devoutly  as  I  hoped  never  to  see  him 
again,  I  couldn't  be  indifferent  to  his  fate.  He  had 
loved  me,  and  once,  in  that  moment  never  to  be  for 
gotten  but  to  stand  separate  forever  from  all  other 
moments  in  its  utter  inexplicability,  my  lips  had 
yielded  to  his  kiss.  No,  I  couldn't  wish  him  evil,  a 
lonely  death  in  the  mountains,  or  the  long  agony  of 
imprisonment.  And  besides,  Joe,  for  whom  I  had 
chiefly  feared,  was  going  now,  and  with  the  ap 
proaching  end  of  summer  Kit  and  I  too  would  return 
to  civilization,  where  Brett  Morgan  troubled  not. 
The  interlude  would  be  played  out,  and  I  would  take 
up  my  life  again  where  I  had  left  it  off,  only  forever 
a  different  Sally  from  the  Sally  who  had  set  out  so 
light-heartedly  with  Kit  and  Miss  Spence  not  three 
months  ago.  The  chief  business  of  my  life,  if  I 
were  wise,  would  be  forgetting — but  I  didn't  want 
to  forget!  Better  the  never-ending  hurt  than  that! 
Better  to  live  always  with  memories  that  stabbed 
like  swords  than  to  be  again  the  Sally  who  had 
never  known  either  pain  or  happiness.  That  little 
soulless  Sally  was  gone  never  to  return,  and  the 
growing  pains  of  the  new  Sally  I  would  bear  as  best 
I  might. 

Came  a  day  when  a  ripple  of  excitement  broke 
the  dead  level  of  monotony.    Kit  informed  me,  in 


,  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       297 

strictest  confidence,  that  Eben  Gregg  had  returned. 
I  pooh-poohed  this,  having  only  that  morning 
passed  his  house,  closed  and  forsaken-looking  as 
ever.  Only  the  gray  cat,  I  now  recollected,  had 
been  sitting  on  the  door-step  smoothing  her  whis 
kers  with  a  contented  air.  However,  that  might 
have  been  due  to  an  extra  allowance  of  milk  from 
Lorena  Pettis,  or  mere  feline  inconstancy  might 
have  reconciled  her  to  her  master's  absence.  But 
Kit  came  back  crushingly  with  the  information 
that  ever  since  the  eventful  camping-trip  he  had 
been  watching  the  house  in  the  expectation  that 
Gregg  would  finally  return  there,  and  that  within 
the  last  three  days  he  had  certainly  done  so.  Kit 
instanced  a  light  which  had  showed  at  dusk  through 
the  closed  shutters,  the  disappearance  of  wood  from 
the  wood-pile,  the  setting  out  of  food  for  the  cat 
in  other  dishes  than  the  cracked  blue  bowl  into 
which  Lorena  had  invariably  poured  the  daily  dole 
of  milk. 

On  thinking  it  over  I  decided  that  the  thing 
might  very  easily  be  true.  Why,  after  all,  shouldn't 
Gregg  return  ?  Opinion  here  would  be  by  no  means 
incensed  against  him;  bootlegging  didn't  rank  as  a 
high  crime  or  misdemeanor  in  any  category  known 
to  Bandy's.  At  first,  of  course,  he  might  lie  low, 


298       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

until  certain  that  no  minion  of  the  law  was  waiting 
to  pounce  out  and  apprehend  him.  Perhaps  he 
would  exercise  a  certain  caution  until  Kit  and  I  had 
departed.  After  that  he  would  probably  resume 
his  place  in  the  dull  dreamy  life  of  the  little  town, 
with  very  slight  probability  of  being  interfered  with 
by  any  one. 

Mr.  Hackett,  I  thought,  wouldn't  bestir  himself 
much  in  the  matter.  I  remembered  his  eager  assur 
ance  to  Gregg  in  the  bunk-house,  "It  ain't  you  I'm 

after "  No,  certainly  it  had  not  been,  or  Gregg 

couldn't  have  slipped  away  so  easily  after  he  was 
caught.  It  was  Brett  Morgan  that  Mr.  Hackett 
wanted,  and  though  he  had  given  his  reasons  plaus 
ibly  enough,  there  lingered  in  my  mind  the  faint 
sense  of  something  still  obscure  and  unrevealed. 
He  had  wanted  Brett  Morgan  very  much — he  had 
hardly,  it  seemed,  wanted  Eben  Gregg  at  all;  yet 
they  had  been  partners  in  misdoing,  equal  in  guilt 
before  the  law,  it  seemed  to  me,  however  much 
Morgan  had  been  in  fact  the  ringleader.  And  now 
Eben  Gregg  had  returned  to  his  cottage  and  his  cat, 
to  the  knowledge,  probably,  of  all  the  town,  though 
the  fiction  of  secrecy  was  still  maintained.  Had 
Mr.  Hackett  given  up  the  chase  and  left  the  moun 
tains,  or  was  he  still  on  watch  somewhere  near  at 


,  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       299 

Hand  where  the  news  of  Gregg's  return  would  bring 
him  on  the  scene  again?  Or,  if  Mr.  Hackett  had 
really  gone  away,  mightn't  Gregg's  return  presage 
that  of  Brett  Morgan  also?  And  I  knew  if  this 
happened  there  was  nothing  left  me  but  flight. 

All  'day  after  Kit  had  imparted  his  disturbing  con 
fidence  these  questions  occupied  my  mind.  In  the 
evening  I  was  restless — I  was  very  often  restless 
now — and  spent  the  hour  after  supper  wandering 
up  and  down  the  garden.  As  the  dusk  deepened  I 
turned  several  times  toward  the  house,  meaning  to 
go  indoors,  where  now  the  light  of  the  sitting-room 
lamp  shone  cheerfully,  revealing  Kit  as  he  pored 
over  a  book,  and  Miss  Luppy  as  she  sat  at  her  darn 
ing,  on  opposite  sides  of  the  center-table  with  the 
turkey-red  cloth.  But  for  the  peace  and  quiet  in 
there  I  had  no  heart.  I  wanted  space,  the  cool  of 
the  evening  air,  the  solemn  companionship  of  night 
rather  than  of  those  two  tranquil  figures  who  could 
not  know  or  share  the  goading  pain  that  was  with 
me  always.  At  last  I  paused  beside  the  gate  and 
stood  there  looking  out.  Why  not,  instead  of  spec 
ulating  about  it,  find  out  for  myself  if  there  were 
really  signs  of  habitation  at  Eben  Gregg's  cottage? 
In  the  darkness  I  ran  little  risk  of  being  detected 
in  my  prowling,  even  if  he  were  there.  I  opened 


300       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

the  gate  quietly  and  slipped  out.  The  road  was 
deserted,  and  no  light  showed  anywhere  that  I 
could  see,  except  the  light  in  the  window  of  Miss 
Luppy's  sitting-room.  I  went  up  the  road  under 
the  indifferent  stars,  past  the  white  fence  of  the 
cemetery,  past  the  two  tall  cypresses  which  loomed 
spectrally  at  its  entrance,  and  in  whose  shadow  I  had 
once  met  Mrs.  Morgan.  How  bodingly  her  warn 
ing  words  reechoed  in  my  mind,  and  how  my  cheeks 
flamed  to  recall  the  cause  I  had  to  know  them  true! 
And  I  wondered  for  the  hundredth  time,  and  with 
the  same  strange  mixture  of  dread  and  unwilling 
interest,  what  had  become  of  Brett  Morgan. 

Eben  Gregg's  cottage  was  dark.  No  glimmer  of 
light  such  as  Kit  had  seen  or  imagined  was  visible. 
But  as  I  stood  in  the  road  before  the  low  black 
mass  of  the  little  house  a  sound  reached  me,  the 
unmistakable  sound  of  a  human  voice  raised  for  an 
instant  and  then  sinking  away  into  a  murmur. 

He  had  returned,  then,  after  all.  He  was  in  his 
house  now,  and  not  alone.  Who  was  his  compan 
ion  ?  As  a  disinterested  outsider,  I  should  probably 
have  replied  that  this  was  not  Sally  Armsby's 
affair;  as  Sally  Armsby  herself,  I  felt  an  instant 
conviction  that  it  might  be  very  much  so.  Cer 
tainly  I  must  set  the  doubt  at  rest. 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       301 

Softly  I  opened  the  gate  into  the  little  yard. 
Softly  I  crept  around  the  corner  of  the  house  until 
I  stood  beneath  the  kitchen  window.  The  murmur 
of  voices  grew  louder,  or  rather,  that  of  Eben  Gregg 
had  become  distinct  enough  to  recognize;  the  other 
had  spoken  but  a  word  in  reply.  But  it  was  a  man's 
voice — not  as  I  had  hoped  the  voice  of  Lorena 
Pettis. 

The  shutters  of  the  window  were  closed,  but 
through  a  wide  chink  near  the  bottom  came  a  gleam 
of  light.  Treading  with  breathless  caution  I 
approached  until  my  eye  was  at  the  opening.  I 
looked  into  the  kitchen,  where  beside  a  smoky, 
dimly  burning  lamp  sat  Eben  Gregg  and  Brett 
Morgan. 

Morgan  sat  facing  me,  darkly  handsome  as  ever, 
but  with  a  lowering  and  sullen  look.  His  hat  was 
pulled  over  his  forehead,  and  he  was  rolling  a  cigar 
ette  with  that  deft  twist  of  his  brown  fingers.  As 
he  raised  his  eyes  to  his  companion  I  caught  the 
gleam  of  them  from  under  his  black  brows. 

"Well,  there  ain't  nothin'  special  doin',  so  fur's  I 
make  out,"  Gregg  was  saying.  "It  looks  like  Hack- 
ett  had  give  up  and  gone,  anyway  I  be'n  here  purty 
nigh  a  week  and  I  ain't  found  out  to  the  contrary. 
Loreny,  she's  watched  out  keerful  fur  me,  o' 


302       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

course,  and  I  cal'lated  on  gittin'  word  in  time  in 
case  them  prohibition  sharks  showed  up  again.  But 
say,  Brett,  why  in  thunder  did  you  come  back? 
You  had  the  chance  to  get  clean  off,  what  with  that 
hoss  you  rode  and  the  whole  Si-erra  before  you. 
And  I  jest  be'n  tellin'  you  how  Hackett  he  up  and 
said  flat  'twarn't  me  he  wanted,  which  makes  it 
purty  plain  as  'twas  you.  I  don't  understand  it, 
I'll  allow,  any  more'n  I  ever  understood  where  that 
whisky  come  from  what  we  was  doin'  such  big  busi 
ness  with.  Say,  Brett,  loosen  up,  boy!  I  be'n  a 
straight  pard  to  you — let  me  in  on  where  you  got 
the  stuff,  anyway!" 

"Nothin'  doin',"  said  Morgan  shortly.  "That's 
my  own  affair.  Seein'  I  made  a  straight  divvy  on 
the  profits,  you  ain't  got  no  kick  comin',  I  should 
say.  As  to  why  I  come  back,  that's  my  own  busi 
ness  too.  I'm  safe  in  doin'  it  all  right — I  can  lay 
so  low  the  whole  town  could  hunt  for  me  a  week 
and  never  find  me." 

"Well,  mebbe  I  can  give  a  guess  why  you  come," 
chuckled  Gregg  with  a  wink  of  his  bleared  old  eye. 
"  'Twas  for  one  more  peek  at  little  Sally,  hey?  I 
see  her  myself  only  this  mornin'  a-strollin'  up  the 
road.  Purty  as  ever,  Brett!  That's  what  brought 
you  back,  I  bet  my  eye !" 


,  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        303 

Morgan  put  his  cigarette  between  his  lips  and 
lighted  it  with  deliberation. 

"Don't  you  go  bettin'  what  you  can't  afford  to 
lose/'  he  advised  sardonically.  "I  come  back, 
Gregg,  since  you  want  so  bad  to  know,  'cause  I 
got  a  job  to  do.  I  left  it  hangin'  fire  before,  'cause 
there  was  that  business  of  the  whisky  to  see  to  and 
• — and  other  things.  I'd  'a'  come  back  now  to  git  it 
done,  if  the  chances  was  ninety-nine  in  a  hundred 
that  it  landed  me  in  the  pen.  Yes,  I'd  take  risks 
that  I  wouldn't  take  for  any  money,  to  be  sure  o' 
evenin'  up  with  a  fellow  that's  been  in  my  way  this 
good  while — a  fellow  that  thinks  he's  somebody — 
account  of  a  college  education — "  Passion  choked 
him.  He  broke  off  suddenly,  grinding  his  strong 
white  teeth. 

"It's  Lambert  you're  cussin'  out,  o'  course," 
surmised  Gregg.  "Well,  I  can't  blame  you,  seein' 
how  he  bu'sted  up  our  little  game  'tother  day — 
though  'twas  mostly  Sally's  doin'.  If  she'd  'a' 
kep'  her  little  nose  out  there  wouldn't  no  Lambert 
have  got  his  in,  I  guess.  All  the  same  I  dunno's  I'd 
git  into  any  more  hot  water  on  account  o'  him  if  I 
was  you,  Brett.  Things  ain't  like  they  uster  be  in 
this  country — you  ain't  let  to  settle  a  grudge  peace 
able  no  more  by  jest  pluggin'  the  feller  you're  at 


304       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

outs  with,  but  are  awful  liable  to  see  the  inside  of 
the  jug  for  it,  yes,  and  to  swing  if  he  dies.  I  guess 
I'd  kind  of  think  things  over,  Brett,  before  I  acted 
rash." 

Morgan  gave  a  savage  laugh.  "Ain't  nothin' 
rash  about  this,  Gregg.  It's  a  blow  in  the  dark— 
he'll  never  know  what  hit  him.  That's  what  makes 
me  sore — I'd  like  for  him  to  know,  and  who  done 
it,  and  all.  But  he  won't — he'll  never  know  it  was 
the  feller  he  looked  at  like  he  was  dirt  that  day  in 
the  street,  and  then  walked  off  cool  with  the  girl — 
He'll  pay,  though,  by  God,  he'll  pay !  I'll  git  that 
job  off  my  chest  to-night  and  be  out  o'  the  county 
by  mornin'.  I  could  'a'  put  it  through  sooner,  o' 
course,  if  I  hadn't  'a'  let  myself  be  side-tracked — 
but  I  never  could  lose  a  chance  for  gittin'  into  trou 
ble.  And  there  was  big  money  in  that  whisky  deal 
— reacly  money  that  I  wanted.  Besides,  I  had  my 
reasons  for  wantin'  to  stick  round  here  a  while — " 

"Better  call  'em  unreasons  when  they  wears 
petticoats,"  said  Gregg  unsympathetically.  "O' 
course  I  don't  know  what  it  is  you  aim  to  spring  on 
Lambert — unless  blowin'  up  his  dam — I  hear  it's 
about  finished  now." 

"Let  it  go  at  that  if  you  like,"  returned  Morgan 
non-committally.  "Yes,  the  dam's  about  finished — 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        305 

I  took  a  look-in  at  the  place  last  night  on  my  way 
down  the  mountain.  Saw  the  guy  himself  sittin' 
in  his  tent  with  the  light  shinin'  out — could  'a'  put 
a  bullet  through  him  as  he  sat.  But  it  wasn't  my 
game  right  then — would  'a'  made  it  inconvenient  to 
visit  the  Flat  like  I  wanted  to  before  lightin'  out 
What  I  aim  to  pull  off  to-night  is  the  kind  o'  work 
that  don't  leave  no  trace."  He  laughed  again. 

"Well,  you're  too  many  fur  me,"  said  Gregg  dis 
contentedly.  "What  you've  got  up  your  sleeve  I 
ain't  able  to  say.  But  whatever  it  is,  whether 
blowin'  up  the  dam  or  pluggin'  Lambert  or  what, 
jest  remember  I  ain't  in  on  it,  that's  all.  I  got  a 
mind  as  soon  as  you're  gone  to  sneak  down  to 
Loreny's,  so's  to  have  me  an  alibi  in  case  they  try 
to  mix  me  up  in  it." 

"You  won't  need  no  alibi,  Eben,"  Morgan 
assured  him,  still  with  that  savage  amusement. 
"Well,  let's  go  over  the  figures  and  find  out  where 
we  stand  on  the  whisky  deal.  You  hadn't  settled 
up  with  me  after  last  time,  remember." 

I  moved  from  the  window  and  made  my  way  back 
to  the  road.  Once  safely  past  the  house  I  ran 
swiftly,  but  always  noiselessly,  home.  Not  until 
I  had  gained  the  garden  did  I  pause,  waiting  in  the 
cool  fragrance  of  the  sweet  blossomy  old  place  for 


306        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

the  breath  that  came  in  hard  throat-rasping  gasps 
to  be  quiet,  for  the  heart  that  throbbed  so  fiercely 
to  beat  evenly  again.  Then  I  went  slowly  into  the 
house.  Miss  Luppy  looked  up  from  her  work,  Kit 
from  his  book.  I  stood  blinking  at  the  light  quite 
naturally,  even  yawning  a  little. 

"Well,  you  been  moonin'  round  out  there  a  good 
while,  ain't  you?"  remarked  Miss  Luppy,  with  that 
mixture  of  disapproval  and  solicitude  which  had 
characterized  her  manner  to  me  lately.  Her  keen 
eyes  were  a  torment  to  me,  for  I  knew  they  were 
probing  always  for  what  the  stake  couldn't  have 
made  me  own  to.  Now  more  than  ever  I  dreaded 
that  they  would  find  me  white  or  shaken  or  betray 
ing  myself  somehow.  So  I  yawned  and  blinked 
again  a  little  harder. 

"Well,  good  night,"  I  said  sleepily.  "I'll  go 
up-stairs,  I  think."  I  went  out  with  an  unhurried 
step. 

But  in  my  room  above  I  paused  only  long  enough 
to  put  on  a  sweater  over  my  light  dress,  then 
removed  my  shoes  and  taking  them  in  my  hand 
went  noiselessly  down-stairs.  Very  gently  I  opened 
the  hall  door,  slipped  out,  and  closed  it  again  softly. 
On  stockinged  feet  I  crossed  the  porch,  descended 
the  few  steps  into  the  garden,  and  having  put  on  my 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       307 

shoes  made  my  way  to  the  gate  which  gave  upon 
the  little  path  up  the  hill.  Beyond  the  gate  I  drew 
my  first  free  breath.  For  the  way  was  open  now — 
that  long  lonely  way  to  the  dam,  where  somehow 
or  other  I  must  be  in  time  to  wrarn  Joe  of  the  coming 
of  Brett  Morgan. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HPHE  path  that  wound  up  the  hill  through  the 
A  tall  brown  grass  was  vague  as  a  thread  of  cob 
web  in  the  darkness,  but  by  some  instinct  my  feet 
kept  to  it  without  straying.  Then  the  woods  began  to 
close  about  me,  as  though  a  great  black-hooded  cloak 
were  swathing  me  in  its  impenetrable  folds.  But  I 
followed  blindly  the  path  that  somehow  led  me  on, 
until  a  murmur  that  had  filled  the  woods  became 
the  roar  of  water,  and  the  breath  of  it  was  cold  upon 
my  face.  With  hands  outstretched  I  felt  before  me 
until  I  touched  the  underpinning  of  the  flume, 
climbed  it,  and  stood  at  last  upon  the  narrow  foot 
way.  How  the  water  roared  by  the  blackness, 
how  the  swift  rush  of  it  seemed  to  clutch  me  by  the 
ankles  and  drag  me  down!  For  an  instant  my 
head  swam  and  deadly  panic  seized  me.  Oh,  for 
light,  light  in  the  all-enveloping,  suffocating  dark! 
Involuntarily  my  hand  went  to  the  electric  torch  in 
my  pocket,  then  drew  back.  I  could  not  risk  it, 
for  close  by  was  the  ridge-trail  over  which,  perhaps, 

308 


,  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       309 

Brett  Morgan  was  already  riding.  The  thought 
stung  me  like  a  spur.  I  forgot  all  fears  but  the 
supreme  one,  and  sped  on.  If  already  he  were  on 
the  way,  then  how  desperate  was  the  need  of  haste, 
how  cruelly  unequal  was  the  race!  My  hope  was, 
that  he  would  delay  his  arrival  at  the  dam  until  that 
blackest,  stillest  midnight  hour  when  sleep  is  most 
profound.  If  I  had  been  sure  of  it,  I  might  have; 
made  the  darkling  journey  in  the  comforting  coltt^ 
panionship  of  Mittens  instead  of  by  the  flume,  but 
I  was  not  sure,  and  I  had  a  better  chance  this  way — 
the  flume  was  two  miles  shorter — than  to  risk  being 
overtaken  on  the  trail. 

Of  that  wild  race  against  time  along  the  flume 
nothing  now  remains  with  me  in  recollection  but  a 
mere  blurred  dream  of  darkness  and  haste  and  fear. 
I  perceive  as  by  flashes  a  hurrying  figure — at  first 
stumbling  along  in  cavernous  gloom,  then  faintly 
illumined  by  the  stars  that  hang  above  the  canon  of 
the  Grizzly.  I  see  it  breathless,  panting,  faltering 
with  fatigue,  yet  still  goading  itself  on,  striving  to 
hurry  faster.  Into  the  obscure  and  shifting  vision 
come  the  water's  steady  rush,  the  murmur  of  the 
wind  along  the  canon,  the  soft  rustle  of  tree-tops, 
but  always  with  a  dream's  fantastic  unreality.  Like 
a  dream,  too,  but  of  nightmare  vividness  and  horror, 


310       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

is  the  memory  of  Eyes,  dreadfully  gleaming,  that 
approach  with  a  soft  thud  of  trotting  pads,  that 
pause  suddenly  in  awful  token  that  they  have  dis 
covered  me  transfixed  there  in  the  narrow  way,  and 
glow  with  an  angrier  light.  On  what  inspiration  I 
acted  I  don't  know;  assuredly  in  my  benumbed 
brain  was  nothing  like  coherent  thought.  But  with 
the  steadiness  of  an  automaton  I  draw  my  torch 
from  my  pocket  and  flash  it  at  the  eyes.  And  they, 
for  all  their  fearsome  gleam,  are  worsted  instantly. 
A  snarl,  a  black  bulk  shooting  through  the  air,  a 
crash  among  the  tree-tops,  tell  the  story  of  a  wild 
cat's  shattered  nerves.  And  the  gasping,  shivering 
shadow  that  is  Sally  hurries  on,  to  the  goal  that  she 
must  somehow  reach  though  Death  himself  rise  in 
the  path. 

Now  the  flume  has  left  behind  the  wider  valley 
and  plunged  into  the  shadow  of  crowding  cliffs. 
The  booming  of  the  water  deepens,  echoing  sullenly 
along  the  gorge.  I  am  nearing  the  dam,  and  with 
the  thought  my  haste  becomes  more  desperate.  Oh, 
if  I  were  still  to  be  too  late,  if  failure,  tragedy,  my 
life's  black  desolation  should  hang  on  minutes, 
seconds!  If  these  leaden,  lagging  feet  should  prove 
the  losers  in  a  race  with  death!  Then  all  at  once 
the  blackness  before  me  takes  on  solidity;  my  grop- 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       311 

ing  hands  encounter  the  walls  of  a  little  building"  a 
yard  square  which,  as  I  recall,  houses  the  screw 
regulating  the  flow  of  water  into  the  flume.  I 
have  reached  the  dam. 

Feeling  my  way,  I  find  the  narrow  path  which 
climbs  the  cliff  and  ascend  it  slowly,  a  new  terror 
weighing  down  my  heart  and  dragging  at  my  tired 
feet,  the  new,  unthought-of  terror  of  what  Joe  will 
say,  of  how  he  will  receive  me!  Then  I  have  left 
the  shadow  of  the  gorge  behind  and  am  out  in  the 
starshine,  with  the  soft  grassy  earth  beneath  my 
tread  and  the  breath  of  the  night-wind  in  my  face. 
Dark  solemn  forms  of  pines  loom  here  and  there. 
A  little  way  off  a  light  shines  through  the  canvas  of 
a  tent. 

Slowly  I  went  toward  it,  dreading  unutterably, 
after  all  my  frenzied  haste,  the  moment  when  I 
must  reveal  myself.  For  that  new  fear  was  taking 
on  a  mushroom  growth.  Involuntarily,  as  I  neared 
the  tent,  I  went  stealthily,  until  I  stood  unheard 
before  it,  looking  in  through  the  open  flap.  Joe 
was  sitting  on  his  cot  with  a  box  before  him  for  a 
table,  writing  by  candle-light.  Though  his  profile 
was  toward  me  I  saw  that  he  was  leaner,  and  as  he 
bent  above  his  work  he  ran  his  hand  wearily 
through  his  thick  rumpled  hair. 


312        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"Joe!"     It  was  the  merest  thread  of  sound. 

His  pen  stopped.  He  sat  motionless,  staring 
before  him  like  one  who  hears  a  whisper  from 
another  world. 

"Joe!"  I  felt  a  ridiculous  momentary  terror  lest 
I  shouldn't  be  Sally  in  the  flesh  at  all,  but  some 
ghostly  wisp  that  he  couldn't  see  or  touch. 

Slowly  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  me.  He 
did  not  move,  but  I  knew  he  saw  me,  because  of  the 
utter  incredulity  that  stared  at  me  out  of  his  eyes. 
Just  that.  Not  joy  or  welcome,  just  stark,  utter 
disbelief. 

"Joe!"  My  voice  broke.  "Joe,  don't  you  know 
me?" 

"Good  God,  Sally!"  In  a  stride  he  was  at  the 
door.  "Sally!"  Again  he  whispered  it,  as  though 
the  sound  must  rouse  him  from  a  dream. 

"Yes,  Joe,  I  came — I  had  to  come "  Oh,  for 

the  right  word  to  make  him  understand  the  dire 
need  that  had  brought  me! 

"Yes,  Sally,  yes — but  what  does  it  mean?  How 
in  the  world  did  you  get  here?"  He  had  taken  my 
hands  in  his.  His  eyes,  questioning,  still  half  unbe 
lieving,  dwelt  devouringly  on  my  face. 

"Brett  Morgan — he's  come  back — I  heard  him 
to-night  with  Eben  Gregg,  talking  of  something — • 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       313 

some  injury  he  means  to  do  you,  Joe.  I  don't  know 
what  exactly — perhaps  shoot  you,  or  blow  up  the 
dam — but  it  was  to  be  to-night,  this  very  night. 
Joe!  Call  your  men — hurry,  hurry!  Any  minute 
he  may  be  here!" 

"Call  my  men,  Sally?"  He  spoke  in  an  odd 
strained  voice.  "I  can't — there's  no  one  here  to  call. 
The  men  made  their  last  trip  to-day,  hauling  out 
the  stuff — the  work's  done  now,  you  know — too 
late  to  get  back.  They  stayed  in  Lone  Pine 
to-night.  I  am — I  am  all  alone  here,  Sally." 

Alone!  'My  knees  gave  under  the  blow  of  it. 
Alone — and  Brett  Morgan  on  the  way!  "Oh,  the 
light,  the  light !"  I  whispered  frantically. 

"The  light?"  Then,  understanding,  he  stepped 
back  and  extinguished  the  candle.  Returning,  he 
took  my  hand  and  led  me  a  little  way  into  the 
shadow  of  some  trees.  On  the  moss  at  their  feet 
we  sat  down. 

"Now  friend  Morgan  will  have  a  job  to  spot  us, 
unless  by  our  voices.  Speak  low,  Sally,  and  tell  me 
everything,  every  word  you  can  remember  that  he 
said." 

Whispering,  I  repeated  all  that  I  had  heard 
beneath  the  window.  Continually  fear  caught  my 
breath.  Every  shadow,  every  faintest  sound,  meant 


314       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

the  coming  of  Brett  Morgan.  I  would  break  off  to 
tremble  and  look  and  listen,  until  with  the  ending 
of  the  story  Joe  took  my  cold  hand  into  his  strong 
clasp. 

"Sally,  'don't  be  so  frightened — he  won't  come 
at  all,  I'm  sure.  He  meant  something  else — an 
injury  of  quite  another  kind.  He  is  not  coming  to 
the  dam." 

"Not  coming'  to  the  dam?  Oh,  Joe!  Then  I 

"  Shame  swept  over  me  in  an  engulfing  wave. 

Then  why  had  I  come?  Why  had  I  done  a  thing 
so  mad,  so — it  seemed  now — hysterically  absurd? 
"Then  I— I—" 

But  Joe  had  put  my  hand  very  gently  to  his  lips. 

"Then  you  are  the  very  bravest  woman  in  the 
world.  The  bravest — and  the  kindest.  To  come  all 
alone — in  the  darkness — to  do  it  for  me!  It  was 
wonderful — how  can  I  thank  you,  Sally  ?" 

"But  I  don't  understand?"  I  said  bewilderedly. 
"If  he  was  not  coming  to  the  dam — what  did  he 
mean  ?  How  did  he  mean  to  harm  you  ?" 

"It's  rather  a  long  story.  I'll  tell  you,  of  course, 
if  you  are  interested,  but  not  now,  because  I  must 
take  you  home."  I  waited,  but  he  did  not  move. 
"Sally" — he  spoke  in  an  altered,  hesitant  tone — 
"Sally,  I've  tried  to  say  how  much  I  thanked  you 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       315 

for — for  your  kindness,  for  remembering — our 
friendship.  We  were  rather  good  pals,  weren't  we, 
this  summer?'* 

"R-rather  good,  Joe."  It  was  a  small  shaking 
voice.  My  hand  clung  to  his  convulsively. 

"Then  do  you  mind  telling  me  something?  Why, 
instead  of  doing  this  wild,  brave,  splendid  thing 
yourself,  instead  of  running1  the  terrible  risk — you 
thought — of  meeting  Morgan  somewhere  on  the 
way,  didn't  you  send  Jimmie  Halliday?" 

Jimmie  Halliday!  At  the  vision  of  Jimmie 
hurrying  over  the  flume  in  the  dark,  of  Jimmie 
confronted  by  a  wildcat,  of  Jimmie  pitting  himself 
in  any  fashion  against  Brett  Morgan,  I  incongru 
ously  and  somewhat  wildly  laughed. 

"Joe!" 

"Well?" 

"How  can  you  be — ridiculous?" 

"Ridiculous?  Is  it  ridiculous  to  think  that 
instead  of  letting  you  do  this  Halliday  should  have 
done  it  for  you?" 

"But  he  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

"You  mean  you  came  off  without  telling  him?" 

"Yes." 

"And  how  will  he  like  it  when  you  do  tell  him;?" 


316       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

"I'm  afraid  I  can  never  answer  that,  because  I 
shall  never  tell  him." 

Silence.  Then,  "I  think  you  had  better  tell  him," 
he  said  with  obvious  effort. 

"But  he'd  be  bored,  Joe." 

"Bored!" 

"Yes,  dreadfully.  Bandy's  Flat  is  too  far  from 
Santa  Barbara  and  Honora  Jones  for  him  to  take 
the  slightest  interest  in  what  happens  here." 

"Santa  Barbara — Honora  Jones !!  Do  you 

mean  that  Halliday  is  not  at  the  Flat?" 

"He  left — the  same  day  you  did,  Joe." 

Again  silence,  silence  intense,  electrical,  a  pause 
upon  the  edge  of  something  that  caught  one's 
breath,  that  stopped  the  beating  of  one's  heart.  My 
hand  was  still  in  his,  and  I  felt  his  fingers  tighten 
in  their  clasp  of  mine,  tighten  till  they  crushed 
them,  almost. 

"Why,  Sally?"  His  voice  had  a  queer  break  in 
it,  as  though  his  breath  too  were  undependable. 

"I  understood  that  he  went  to  propose  to  Honora 
Jones." 

"Sally!" 

"Oh!"  I  cried,  turning  on  him  suddenly.  "You 
believed,  you  actually  believed,  that  it  could  be 


'FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT     317 

Jimmie — or  rather  Jimmie's  uncle's  money!  You 
believed  that  of  me !" 

"Not  that,  not  that,  Sally.  I  didn't  believe  you 
could  be  bought.  Only  he  seemed  so  much  a  part  of 
your  life  and  I  so  out  of  it,  he  had  so  much  to  offer 
you  and  I  had  nothing " 

"Nothing,  Joe?"  It  was  the  smallest  whisper, 
my  heart  was  choking  me  so. 

"Only  my  love,  Sally  darling." 

"It's  all  I  ever  wanted,  Joe."  There  was  a 
muffled  effect  to  this  remark,  and  those  which 
succeeded  it  were  quite  inaudible,  except  to  the  ear 
for  which  they  were  intended. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

JOE  Had  said  farewell  to  me  in  Miss  Luppy's 
garden  under  the  morning  stars  and  returned 
to  the  dam,  to  be  there  when  the  men  came  to  haul 
out  the  last  of  the  equipment.  For  all  the  long 
hours  of  his  absence  the  thought  of  Brett  Morgan 
haunted  me,  and  when  at  last  a  clear  whistle  sounded 
from  the  gate  I  forgot  that  to  Miss  Luppy  the  arrival 
was  all  unannounced  and  unexplained  and  sprang  up 
joyfully. 

"Oh,  he's  safe,  he's  here !"  I  cried,  and  ran  out, 
leaving  her  transfixed.  Transfixed  she  was  still 
when  we  returned,  and  received  the  news  of  our 
engagement  stonily,  then  suddenly  and  alarmingly 
shed  two  tears  which  trickled  down  her  nose  and 
reddened  it.  Having  wiped  them  away  she  rose 
with  solemnity  and  kissed  us  both. 

"I  hope  you've  thought  it  over  well,"  was  all  she 
said,  this  not  very  encouraging  comment  being 
intended,  I  suppose,  as  an  offset  to  so  exceptional 
an  emotional  display. 

318 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        319 

She  heard  the  rest  of  our  story  in  her  usual  self- 
contained  fashion.  The  return  of  Eben  Gregg  did 
not  surprise  her,  but  the  news  that  Brett  Morgan 
had  been  again  in  the  neighborhood  brought  an 
anxious  wrinkle  to  her  forehead. 

"But  I  don't  make  it  out  yet,"  she  said.  "What 
was  it  you  think  he  was  up  to,  Joe,  that  you  was  so 
almighty  sure  it  warn't  you  nor  the  dam  he  was 
comin'  against?  What  harm  could  he  do  you  right 
here  to  the  Flat — unless  'twas  runnin'  off  again 
with  Sally?" 

He  paused  before  replying. 

"Well,"  he  said  finally,  "I  suppose  I  might  as 
well  tell  you  the  whole  yarn.  Before  Hackett  left 
the  Flat  he  let  me  in  on  certain  things  in  confidence, 
but  I  know  they  will  be  as  safe  with  you  and  Sally; 
as  with  me,  and  besides,  you  are  partly  concerned 
in  the  affair,  Cousin  Lavinia."  Joe  occasionally 
employed  this  mode  of  address,  to  Miss  Luppy's 
immense  though  carefully  disguised  satisfaction. 

"To  begin  with,  Hackett  is  not  a  government 
officer  at  all,  but  a  detective  in  the  service  of  the 
railroad.  Ever  since  it  happened  he  has  been  work 
ing  on  that  train-robbery — when  I  was  held  up,  you 
know.  Of  the  three  men  .engaged  in  it,  one  is 
known  to  have  got  away  to  San  Francisco,  where  He 


320        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

was  lost  sight  of.  The  others,  including  the  fellow 
wounded  by  the  brakeman's  bullet,  stayed  in  the 
hills.  A  few  days  after  the  robbery  a  body  was  dis 
covered  between  Nuttall  Creek  and  Golconda,  which 
had  been  dug  up  by  coyotes  from  a  shallow  grave. 
Something  had  frightened  the  animals  off  before 
they  mutilated  the  corpse  much,  and  it  was  recog 
nized  as  that  of  a  man  who  had  been  seen  near  the 
railroad  on  the  day  before  the  hold-up.  A  bullet- 
wound  through  the  chest  made  it  certain  that  it 
was  the  body  of  the  wounded  bandit.  This  left  the 
third  fellow  to  be  accounted  for,  and  when  Hackett 
had  studied  the  ground  a  while  he  made  out  suffi 
cient  of  a  trail  to  bring  him  up  here  to  the  Flat.  I 
forget  what  the  clues  were  exactly,  but  some  kids 
out  hunting  had  seen  a  man  in  the  brush  farther  up 
Nuttall  Creek,  a  ranch-house  between  there  and  the 
Flat  had  been  robbed  of  a  side  of  bacon  and  some 
bread,  camp-fire  ashes  and  bacon-rind  had  been 
found  in  a  gulch  running  down  to  the  Stony. 
Later,  Hackett  found  signs  at  Little  York  which 
indicated  that  the  bandit  had  lain  in  hiding  there 
for  several  days,  living  on  his  bacon  and  small  game 
that  he  had  trapped. 

"Anyway,   the   trail  was  plain   enough   to  make 
Hackett  think   it   worth   his   while   to   look   things 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        321 

over  here  at  the  Flat.  And  of  course  it  didn't  take 
long  for  him  to  decide  that  Brett  Morgan  was  the 
man.  Getting  the  goods  on  him  wasn't  so  easy, 
though,  until  he  got  on  to  this  bootlegging  business, 
and  made  up  his  mind  to  pinch  the  fellow  on  that 
charge  and  then  dig  up  the  necessary  evidence  in 
the  other  case  at  his  leisure.  Morgan,  of  course, 
wasn't  courting  the  presence  of  inquisitive  strang 
ers  just  then,  and  the  town  being  like-minded,  he 
didn't  have  much  trouble  in  starting  something 
which  would  have  turned  out  unpleasantly  for 
brother  Hackett,  if  you  hadn't  got  in  ahead  of  him, 
Cousin  Lavinia.  Hackett  had  already  notified  the 
Revenue  Department,  and  there  was  an  agent, 
Gamble,  waiting  for  him  at  Golconda.  As  the 
agent  was  anxious  to  nab  Gregg  too,  they  followed 
Morgan  up  into  the  mountains — with  what  results 
I  needn't  remind  you.  Why,  Sally,  what's  the 
matter?  You  look  as  scared  and  upset  as  if  you 
thought  Morgan  was  under  the  sofa." 

It  was  no  vision  of  Brett  Morgan  under  the  sofa 
that  had  driven  the  blood  from  my  cheeks.  It  was 
the  remembrance  of  that  hour  alone  with  him  in  the 
mountains,  of  the  wild  love  that  he  had  offered  me, 
of  the  kiss  that  I  had  so  amazingly  returned.  A 
queer  mixture  of  emotions,  of  which  humiliation 


322       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

was  only  one  element,  had  kept  me  from  telling  Joe 
— would  always,  I  knew  now,  keep  me  from  it. 
How  much  worse,  how  much  more  dangerous  and 
desperate,  he  was  than  I  had  known,  this  man  who 
had  had  me  at  his  mercy — and  who  had  not  been 
merciless.  Was  I  altogether  wrong  and  reprehen 
sible  to  wish  that  he  might  not  be  taken,  that  so  long 
as  Joe  was  safe  Brett  Morgan  too  might  escape — 
to  some  place  very  far  away  whence  he  would  return 
no  more?  Wrong  or  not  I  wished  it,  and  in  the 
same  breath  feared  him  unutterably.  He  was  the 
cloud  on  my  happiness,  at  the  same  time  that,  prayer 
fully,  I  wished  him  freedom  and  escape.  Hence  the 
pale  and  agitated  looks  that  had  caught  Joe's  eye. 

"It's  nothing,  only  I  never  was  personally 
acquainted  with  a  train-robber  before."  I  achieved 
an  uncertain  smile.  "Go  on,  Joe,  please.  Why  did 
you  say  Miss  Luppy  was  concerned  in  this?" 

Again  he  hesitated. 

"Because  there  is  an  angle  to  the  affair  which  I 
haven't  mentioned  to  any  one  as  yet.  In  the  first 
place,  I  believe  the  man  who  frisked  me — went 
through  my  pockets,  you  know — was  Morgan.  It 
was  a  fellow  about  his  size,  anyway,  and  though  he 
was  masked,  of  course,  I  remember  dark  hair  show 
ing  where  the  bandanna  had  slipped  a  little.  That 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       323 

would  account,  perhaps,  for  his  looking  at  me  the 
first  time  we  met  here  at  the  Flat  in  an  odd  way 
that  struck  me  at  the  time — as  if  he  had  seen  me 
before  and  didn't  take  pleasure  in  the  recollection. 

"Now  the  only  thing,  practically,  that  they  got 
from  me  was  my  wallet.  And  the  only  thing  I 
minded  losing  in  the  wallet  was  Uncle  Bates's  letter. 
And  the  only  person  to  whom  that  letter  would  have 
meant  anything  was  a  man  who  knew  the  Flat  and 
knew  it  well — its  past  as  well  as  its  present.  My 
idea  is  that  it  was  that  letter  which  brought  Morgan 
back  to  the  Flat,  though  I  suppose  he  may  have  been 
as  safe  here  as  anywhere.  Because  that  letter  would 
give  a  very  strong  hint,  to  a  person  who  understood 
the  allusions  as  well  as  Morgan,  that  somewhere  or 
other  about  the  place  Uncle  Bates  had  left  some 
thing  very  well  worth  finding,  something  which  he 
had  tucked  away  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one, 
and  which  he  had  intended  leaving  to  my  father. 
The  hold-up  men,  you  know,  didn't  make  much  of  a 
haul,  being  scared  off  by  the  shot  that  got  one  of 
them  in  the  chest.  Morgan,  who  stuck  by  the 
wounded  man,  may  have  got  his  share  as  well  as  his 
own,  so  that  he  returned  here  with  perhaps  £ome 
hundreds  of  dollars  in  his  pocket,  which  he  would 
find  useful  later  when  it  came  to  buying  his  horses 


324       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

and  so  forth.  His  one  chance  of  gaining  anything 
worth  while  by  his  risky  adventure  was  to  follow  up 
the  clue  in  Uncle  Bates's  letter.  My  idea  is  that  he 
did  follow  it  up,  picking  out  the  old  saloon  as  the 
most  likely  place  to  look,  with  the  result  that  he  dis 
covered  the  whisky  hidden  there  somewhere.  What 
else  he  found  no  one  knows,  but  I  think  he  found 
something,  which — and  this  would  explain  his 
words  last  night  to  Eben  Gregg — he  intended 
either  to  appropriate  or  to  destroy." 

"Well,  of  all  the  extraordinary  stories,  Joe!"  I 
gasped.  A  thousand  confirmatory  circumstances 
rushed  on  my  mind — I  too  recalled  the  oddity  of  the 
lowering  look  he  had  turned  on  Joe  that  day.  There 
had  been  more  in  it  than  unfriendliness,  there  had 
been  a  gleam  of  startled  recognition.  Then  his 
words  to  me — "I  got  a  chance,  a  big  chance,  Sally" 
• — these  and  many  others  I  recalled,  and  in  the 
light  of  Joe's  story  they  were  for  the  first  time 
intelligible.  Yes,  Morgan  had  been  hunting  in  the 
old  saloon  for  something  else  when,  in  some 
unknown  repository,  he  found  the  whisky.  And 
the  other  thing  that  he  had  found,  and  that  he  had 
come  back  last  night  either  to  carry  off  or  to  de 
stroy,  was  either  now  destroyed  or  had  been  taken 
with  him  in  his  flight  to  some  place  far  away. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        325 

"Why  didn't  you  ever  speak  of  this  before,  Joe  ?" 
demanded  Miss  Luppy  after  a  stunned  silence. 

"Because  I  had  lost  the  letter  which  was  the  only 
proof  of  what  I  had  to  say.  I  thought  I  might  per 
haps  speak  of  it  by  and  by,  after  we  knew  each  other 
better — not  putting  forward  any  claim,  of  course, 
but  leaving  the  whole  matter  in  your  hands.  Then 
• — Sally's  and  my  misunderstanding  came,  and  I 
wanted  only  to  get  away  and  to  forget.  I  intended 
to  write  to  you  from  San  Francisco,  before  I  sailed, 
telling  you  the  circumstances  and  resigning  to  you 
entirely  anything  that  might  be  found.  I  had  lost 
interest  in  Uncle  Bates's  money  then — I  didn't  seem 
to  need  it  much  for  perpetual  bachelorhood  in  South 
America." 

"Now  don't  git  to  moonin'  and  philanderin,'  you 
two,"  exclaimed  Miss  Luppy,  quite  unjustifiably 
because  all  we  had  done  was  look  at  each  other. 
"What  I  want  to  know  is,  what  are  we  goin'  to  do  ? 
Though  I  expect  it's  only  lockin'  the  stable  door 
after  the  horse  is  gone;  still  that  place  ought  to  be 
looked  over  thorough.  But  I  won't  consent  to  no 
risks  bein'  took  while  Brett's  mebbe  hangin'  round, 
ready  to  shoot  you  on  sight." 

"It's  not  at  all  likely  that  he  is  hanging  round," 
Joe  assured  her.  "Judging  from  what  he  said  to 


326       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

Gregg,  he  did  what  he  came  to  do  and  then  lit  out. 
He  would  have  no  object  in  staying,  and  it  would  be 
a  risky  thing  for  him,  for  Hackett  is  sure  to  have 
left  some  channel  open  through  which  to  get  word  if 
he  came  back,  though  I  know  he  did  not  expect 
that  Morgan  would  come  back,  but  has  been  having 
a  lookout  kept  for  him  over  in  Nevada.  Of  course 
Hackett  knew  nothing  of  the  other  circumstances 
in  the  case,  which  I  felt  under  no  obligation  to  tell 
him.  But  I  sent  him  a  message  this  morning,  when 
the  men  went  out  to  Lone  Pine,  to  be  telephoned 
to  his  headquarters  in  the  city.  Just  where  he  is  I 
don't  know,  so  it  may  be  a  couple  of  days  before  he 
turns  up.  Anyway,  I  am  afraid  he  will  have  his 
trouble  for  his  pains,  for  as  I  said  before  Morgan 
has  certainly  made  his  getaway  by  now." 

"Well,  Joe,"  said  Miss  Luppy,  "all  I  got  to  say  is. 
I  wish  you'd  kind  o'  strung  your  surprises  out. 
There's  more  been  offered  to  me  sudden  than  I  feel 
it's  agreein'  with  my  system  to  take  in.  As  to 
Bandy  Bates's  money,  you  only  make  me  certain  of 
what  I've  suspicioned  all  along — that  there  was  a 
good  deal  more  of  it  than  ever  showed  up  when  it 
came  to  probatin'  the  estate.  The  hull  town 
thought  so  at  the  time,  I  know,  and  old  Cousin 
Eliza,  she  was  always  a-frettin*  and  specalatin' 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT        327 

about  it.  She  was  real  avaricious,  though  I'm  sorry 
to  say  so,  and  warn't  never  willin',  I  jedge,  that  her 
husband  should  do  nothin'  about  property  without 
she  had  her  finger  in  it.  And  him  not  bein'  one  to 
stand  for  dictatin',  why,  I  suspect  he  jest  fixed 
things  up  his  own  way  without  tellin'  her.  It  was 
the  chance  o'  that  letter  miscarryin',  and  then  him 
dyin'  so  sudden,  that  mixed  things  up  so." 

"Cousin  Lavinia,  it's  perfectly  bully  of  you  to 
believe  this  queer  yarn  of  mine  without  question," 
said  Joe  gratefully.  "Of  course  Morgan,  on  account 
of  his  grudge  against  me,  has  got  away  by  now  with 
any  valuables  there  may  have  been,  or  destroyed 
them,  if  in  a  form  he  couldn't  use.  I  am  inclined  to 
think  there  may  have  been  bonds  or  something  of 
the  kind,  which  he  would  be  dubious  about  trying  to 
realize  on,  as  establishing  a  link  by  which  he  could 
be  traced.  So  I  suspect  there  is  nothing  left  for  us 
to  quarrel  about,  even  if  I  would  have  tried  to  assert 
any  claim." 

"Quarrel,  my  grandmother's  nightcap!"  ex 
claimed  Miss  Luppy  with  heat.  "I  guess  you  and 
me,  Joe,  could  o'  made  out  to  settle  about  a  parcel 
c'  dirty  money  without  quarrelin'.  Why,  here  I  am 
without  chick  or  child,  and  you  my  own  kin — if  not 
so  near  as  some,  well,  it  ain't  always  nearness  that 


328        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

makes  kin  agreeable.  No,  we  wouldn't  'a'  quar 
reled,  Joe,  and  we  won't  however  things  turn  out. 
All  I  got  to  say  is,  you  want  to  be  awful  sure  Brett's 
cleared  out  before  you  risk  gittin'  in  his  way,  par 
ticular  in  the  very  place  where  he's  most  likely  to 
be  hidin'  in  case  he  ain't  gone." 

"The  first  thing  to  be  done,  of  course,"  remarked 
Joe,  as  if  not  heeding  this,  "is  to  get  a  key  made  for 
the  saloon  door." 

"It  ain't  no  ways  necessary,"  said  Miss  Luppy 
calmly.  "I  got  another  one  up-stairs."  She 
showed  a  gleam  of  frosty  humor  at  our  astonished 
faces.  "O'  course  you're  wonderin'  why  I  didn't 
trot  it  out  that  day  when  we  found  the  other  key 
was  lost.  Well,  the  truth  is  I  had  a  notion  it  was 
Hackett  that  had  stole  it — borrered  if,  if  you  like — 
off  the  kitchen  nail,  and  I  was  that  put  out  over 
makin'  a  silly  of  myself  by  fallin'  for  his  trick  that 
I  didn't  want  nothin'  more  to  do  with  the  business, 
nor  with  him.  And  I  begun  to  wonder,  real  uneasy, 
whether  after  all  the  whisky  had  come  from  some 
nook  or  corner  about  the  place,  and  if  Hackett 
knew  it  all  the  time,  and  was  laughin'  at  me  in  his 
sleeve.  And  I  remembered  how  much  time  Cousin 
Heber  Bates  had  put  in  there  in  that  old  buildin' 
before  he  died,  and  how  even  while  he  was  workin' 


'  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       329 

and  tinkerin'  he  kep'  the  door  locked,  so  'twas  a 
mercy  he  had  jest  unlocked  it  before  the  fit  took 
him.  So  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  go  no  further 
with  the  investigatin'  jest  then,  but  to  slip  over 
sometimes  with  no  one  noticin'  and  do  some  lookin' 
round  myself.  Only  after  you  and  Sally  fell  out 
she  was  never  off  the  place  long  enough  to  give  me 
the  chance  to  slip  away  without  her  seein'  me  and 
mebbe  askin'  inconvenient  questions." 

"But  you  don't  suspect  Mr.  Hackett  now  of  hav 
ing  taken  the  key?"  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  child/'  she  said 
gravely,  "I  guess  it  ain't  hard  to  figure  now  who 
took  the  key.  She'd  know  the  looks  of  it  right  well, 
o'  course,  account  of  her  husband  havin'  charge  of 
it  till  he  was  killed.  So  she'd  come  over  all  primed 
up  with  one  that  looked  enough  like  it  to  pass,  and 
then  watch  her  chance  to  swap — I'll  lay  'twas  that 
very  Sunday  you  and  Joe  had  been  through  the 
place,  and  come  back  and  hung  the  key  on  the  nail 
right  under  her  eyes.  I  was  back  and  forth  a  good 
deal  after  that,  I  remember." 

"Do  you  think  she  knew — what  her  son  had 
done,  or  what  he  meant  to  do?"  With  all  that 
there  was  to  distract  it,  my  mind  still  persistently 
hovered  about  the  topic  of  Brett  Morgan. 


330       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

« 

Miss  Luppy  looked  more  sober  still. 

"I  don't  know,  child/'  she  answered,  "and  I 
guess  I  won't  specalate.  She's  awful  fond  o'  Brett, 
that's  sure,  and  o'  course  whatever  he  done  she 
wouldn't  turn  against  him,  no  more'n  any  other 
mother.  Whether  she  knew  what  he  wanted  the 
key  for,  or  anything  but  jest  that  he  did  want  it,  I 
ain't  got  a  notion.  But  I  guess  we  won't  find  fault 
with  her  none  for  what  she  done  for  her  boy." 

This  conversation  had  taken  place  after  supper. 
It  was  interrupted  now  by  the  entrance  of  Kit  with 
the  news — so  very  small  a  matter  makes  news  at 
Bandy's — that  a  horse,  saddled  and  bridled,  had 
been  found  straying  about  in  the  mine.  The  men 
who  had  found  it,  and  who  were  presumably  re 
turning  from  work  in  a  remote  part  of  the  old 
excavation  where  slickens  men  troubled  not,  had 
brought  the  animal  up  into  the  town.  He  was 
hitched  now  outside  the  Bonanza  House,  and  folks 
were  making  bets  about  who  owned  him,  and  how 
he  had  come  to  be  down  there  in  the  mine.  Kit  had 
even  heard  whispered  the  name  of  Brett  Morgan — 
his  eyes  were  very  round  as  he  made  this  announce 
ment.  But  the  expected  effect  of  it  was  lost.  Joe 
and  I  had  already  told  each  other  in  a  glance  whose 
horse  it  was. 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       331 

"But  I  suppose  you  are  the  only  person,  except 
Gregg,  who  could  really  identify  it,  Sally,"  he  said 
in  a  low  voice.  "You  had  better  go  down  and  take 
a  look." 

In  the  soft  evening  light  we  went  together  down 
the  queer  little  street.  A  knot  of  loungers  in  front 
of  the  Bonanza  House  were  interestedly  regarding 
a  gray  horse  with  a  Spanish  saddle,  on  whose 
points  Asa  Cobb,  that  great  authority  in  horse 
flesh,  was  expatiating.  A  glance  was  enough.  I 
nodded  slightly  to  Joe,  and  we  turned  and  retraced 
our  steps,  Joe  signing  to  Kit,  who  remained  to 
drink  in  Asa  Cobb's  wisdom  with  an  admiration 
now  unwilling,  for  silence. 

"Then  he  hasn't  gone  after  all!"  I  whispered  as 
we  passed  along  the  street,  where  every  darkening 
'doorway  held  for  me  the  lurking  figure  of  Brett 
Morgan.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  been  certain 
of  it  already.  Through  all  the  happiness  of  this  day 
his  dark  powerful  presence  had  seemed  to  brood 
about  me,  troubling  me  with  something  that  was 
strangely  like  reproach. 

Joe  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"I  don't  know,  Sally;  it's  a  queer  business.  If 
Morgan  had  meant  to  hang  around  a  while  it  seems 
likely  he  would  have  left  his  horse  somewhere  else 


332        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

than  in  the  mine,  and  with  a  saddle  on  its  back  at 
that.  No,  it  looks  to  m:e  as  if  he  had  certainly  in 
tended  to  start  last  night.  Or  perhaps  he  did  start 
and  something  happened — the  horse  may  have 
stumbled  in  the  dark  down  there  in  the  mine  and 
thrown  him.  The  best  of  riders  have  broken  their 
necks  that  way." 

Miss  Luppy's  view  of  the  matter  proved  to  be  the 
same  as  Joe's,  and  we  sat  together  in  the  deepening 
twilight,  wrondering  and  speculating.  At  least  Miss 
Luppy  and  I  wondered  and  speculated,  and  Joe  sat 
reflectively  smoking.  It  was  nearly  dark  when 
there  was  the  sound  of  the  garden  gate  opening  and 
closing,  and  I  concluded  that  Kit  had  come  home. 
But  the  step  that  sounded  on  the  porch  outside  was 
slow  and  dragging,  and  the  opening  of  the  door  re 
vealed  the  shawled  figure  of  a  woman. 

It  was  Mrs.  Morgan.  I  think  we  all  started 
when  we  saw  her — I  know  a  little  sharp  thrill  ran 
along  my  nerves,  as  though  a  cold  wind  of  sorrow 
and  disaster  had  blown  in  with  her.  She  did  not  per 
ceive  Joe  and  me  at  once,  for  the  shadow  of  the 
high-backed  sofa  hid  us.  Miss  Luppy  was  con 
spicuous  against  the  still  faintly  lighted  window, 
and  Mrs.  Morgan  took  a  step  toward  her,  then 
paused  as  if  the  power  of  motion  had  forsaken  her. 


'    FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       333 

'"My  sakes,  Mis'  Morgan/'  exclaimed  Miss 
Luppy  in  an  agitated  tone,  "if  you  ain't  sort  o'  took 
me  by  surprise !  Set  down,  set  down,  do.  A  fine 
evenin' — seems  promisin'  for  early  rain  to  me." 

Mrs.  Morgan  did  not  move. 

"Miss  Luppy" — she  spoke  in  a  slow  difficult 
fashion— "I  hear  they  found  a  horse"—  she  broke 
off  suddenly. 

"A  horse?"  Miss  Luppy  seemed  confounded  by 
this  simple  inquiry.  "A  horse,  Mis'  Morgan? 
Y-yes,  I  expect  they  did." 

"And  was  it  any  horse  belongin'  'round  here?" 
Back  of  the  slow  hesitating  utterance  you  heard  the 
breath  rasping  in  her  throat. 

Miss  Luppy  faced  the  inevitable.  "There  warn't 
nobody  recognized  the  horse  but  Sally,"  she  said  in 
a  low  voice.  "She — she  was  jest  a-tellin'  me — " 

"A-tellin'  you  what — what?"  There  was  a  ter 
rible  urgency  in  the  straining  whisper. 

"That  it  was  Brett's." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  The  shawled  fig 
ure  stood  motionless  in  the  faint  twilight  from  the 
window. 

Miss  Luppy  cleared  her  throat.  "Mis'  Morgan," 
she  went  on,  "I  guess  I  may  as  well  out  with  it. 
We  know  Brett  was  here  last  night — he  was  seen. 


334       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

I'm  a-goin'  to  ask  you  to  tell  me,  and  tell  me  plain, 
whether  Brett  left  you  intendin'  to  go  right  off,  or 
whether  'twas  understood  that  he  was  to — lie  by 
somewheres." 

"He  was — goin'  right  off."  The  whisper  now 
was  hoarser,  fainter. 

"Right  off?" 

"Jest  'tend  to  somethin'  that  wouldn't  take  long 
—then  go." 

Miss  Luppy  approached  the  immobile  figure  and 
laid  her  firm  hand  upon  its  arm. 

"Mis'  Morgan,  you  and  me's  been  neighbors  this 
long  time.  You  know  I  want  to  stand  by  you — I 
want  to  help  you.  There  ain't  no  use  pretendin' — 
it  looks  awful  like  Brett  hadn't  never  got  away. 
Either  he  must  have  been  thrown  after  he  got 
a-hossback,  down  there  in  the  mine,  or  else  he  never 
got  a-hossback — he  never  got  out  o'  the  place  he 
went  into  after  he  left  you." 

"The  place — ?"  In  the  faint  light  from  the  win 
dow  I  saw  her  start  and  quiver. 

"The  place  there  in  the  old  saloon  where  he 
found  the  whisky."  Miss  Luppy's  voice  was  steady. 
"O'  course  I've  suspicioned  it,  Mis'  Morgan,  and 
I  meant  to  look  into  it  in  my  own  time.  But  the 
way  things  have  come  out,  I  guess  there'd  best  be 


1  FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       335 

no  more  putt  in'  off.  Hackett'll  be  here  no  later'n 
to-morrow,  mebbe.  Mis'  Morgan,  wouldn't  you 
ruther  we  found  Brett  before  he  comes  ?" 

The  implication  of  her  words  was  unmistakable. 
They  seemed  to  deepen  the  shadow  in  the  room,  to 
fall  like  a  sentence  of  doom  on  the  bowed  head  oi 
the  mother  in  its  cowl-like  drapery.  rA  low  cry 
broke  from  her. 

"Found  him — you  think  my  boy — ?" 
"Mis'  Morgan,  there  ain't  but  one  thing  to  think 
* — somethin's  happened  to  Brett  that  he  didn't  count 
on.  Now,  there  ain't  but  one  person  that  knows 
Jest  exactly  where  to  look  for  him,  and  that's  you ; 
you  know,  if  any  one  does,  how  to  find  that  secret 
place  over  there.  It'll  be  found  pretty  soon  any 
way,  o'  course ;  Hackett  ain't  one  to  let  the  wool  be 
pulled  over  his  eyes  very  long.  But  if  you  want  to 
find  Brett  first,  why,  you  come  along  with  us  right 


now." 


The  mother  threw  out  her  hands  with  a  despair 
ing  gesture. 

"It's  no  use !"  she  wailed.  "We  can't  git  in !  He'd 
V  locked  the  door  like  he  always  did  and  the 
key's  with  him  inside.  Yes,  I  stole  it  from  you, 
Miss  Luppy.  I  come  over  here  pretendin'  jest 
to  visit  friendly,  and  when  your  back  was  turned  I 


336       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

took  that  key  and  hung  another  that  looked  like  it 
on  the  nail.  And  I  told  Brett  where  to  hunt  in  the 
old  buildin' — soon  as  I  read  that  letter  I  guessed 
what  it  meant.  Before  Mr.  Bates  took  the  key  from 
me,  right  after  Brett,  my  husband,  was  killed,  I 
used  to  go  in  there  at  night  to  cry  and  lay  my  cheek 
to  the  spot  on  the  floor  where  the  bloodstains 
showed.  And  that's  when  I  saw,  though  without 
troublin'  my  head  about  it  at  the  time,  some  queer 
things  old  Bandy  was  doin'  in  a  carpenter  way. 
But  he  found  out  I'd  been  in,  and  was  angry  and 
took  away  the  key.  And  I  had  never  been  inside 
the  place  in  more'n  twenty  years,  nor  give  a  real 
heedful  thought  to  what  Bandy  had  been  doin' 
there,  till  my  boy  showed  me  the  letter,  and  it  come 
to  me  all  at  once.  And  now  Brett's  in  there,  mebbe 
hurt  bad,  and  I  can't  git  to  him.  Oh,  the  black  luck 
that  hangs  around  the  place  for  me  and  mine !" 

"There,  don't  take  on,  Mis'  Morgan,"  urged 
Miss  Luppy.  "As  to  gittin'  in,  that's  easy;  I  got 
another  key  right  here  in  my  pocket.  Joe,  git  the 
lantern  off  the  store-room  shelf,  third  from  the  bot 
tom  at  the  left,  next  the  molasses  jug." 

Whether  Mrs.  Morgan  had  all  along  been  con 
scious  of  our  presence  I  don't  know,  but  in  her  grief 
and  dread  she  was  beyond  resenting  it.  For  my  part, 


'     FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       337 

I  felt  no  longer  any  fear  for  Joe  or  for  myself; 
instead,  a  sense  that  events  had  already  reached 
their  somber  conclusion  hung  on  me  with  an  intol 
erable  weight.  Joe  and  Miss  Luppy,  when  they 
found  that  I  meant  to  accompany  them,  would  have 
demurred,  but  I  cut  them  short  with  a  resolute 
word.  In  silence  we  went  down  the  dark  road  to 
the  iron  door.  Joe  unlocked  it,  then  lighted  the 
lantern  and  stepped  before  us  over  the  threshold 
into  the  heavy  gloom  beyond. 

How  black  it  was  in  there,  how  drearily  the  place 
echoed  to  our  foot-falls!  The  air  was  close  and 
heavy,  and  the  dim  yellow  ray  of  the  lantern  winked 
and  flickered  as  if  overwhelmed  by  the  surround 
ing  tide  of  darkness.  I  gave  a  fearful  look  about, 
thinking  of  old  Bandy  Bates  who  had  been  found 
dying  here,  of  the  elder  Brett  Morgan  whose  blood 
had  stained  the  floor.  Had  a  third  life  gone  out 
under  this  roof,  and  would  the  advancing  zone  of 
lantern-light  reveal  in  a  moment  something  that 
lay  very  still,  its  dark  head,  so  filled  with  feverish 
ambitions,  low  and  quiet  at  last?  But  nothing  was 
there,  it  seemed,  but  darkness,  and  dust,  and  scuttling 
spiders. 

Still  in  silence,  Mrs.  Morgan  turned  and  took 
the  lantern.  Holding  it  before  her,  she  traversed 


338       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

• 

the  long  room,  we  following  at  a  little  distance,  I 
with  my  ice-cold  hand  in  Joe's.  She  passed  through 
the  little  gate  that  led  behind  the  bar  and  turned 
toward  the  wall,  holding  the  lantern  at  arm's  length. 
Suddenly  she  cried  out,  then  sank,  a  moan 
ing,  rocking,  huddled  heap,  upon  the  floor.  But 
nothing  was  there  but  a  black  opening  from  which  a 
breath  of  earthy  air  rose  chillingly.  A  section  of 
the  floor,  some  thirty  inches  square,  stood  at  a  little 
past  the  perpendicular,  resting  against  the  bar. 

I  felt  Joe's  hand  tighten  hard  on  mine.  Miss 
Luppy's  breath  made  a  sudden  sharp  sound  between 
her  teeth.  We  stood  still,  while  bending  over  the 
black  emptiness  below  the  unhappy  woman  called 
upon  her  son.  He  did  not  answer — we  knew  at 
once  that  he  would  never  answer.  The  open  trap 
door  had  told  the  story;  he  had  gone  down,  but  he 
had  never  come  up. 

Then  Joe,  putting  me  back  with  a  slight  motion, 
went  to  her  side  and  gently  took  the  lantern  from 
her  hand.  He  leaned  down,  thrusting  the  lantern 
well  into  the  opening.  I  saw  the  top  rung  of  a  lad 
der — it  was  all  I  ever  did  see  of  the  secret  place  of 
Bandy  Bates's  contriving.  For  Joe  rose  with  a  white 
face,  and  putting  the  mother  very  gently  aside 
closed  the  trap-door. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

I  SAW  Brett  Morgan  once  again,  on  the  day  they 
took  him  to  his  grave  in  the  little  cemetery  on 
the  hillside,  where  the  tall  cypress  trees  stand 
guard  beside  the  gate.  I  had  gone  over  early  with 
some  flowers  from  Miss  Luppy's  garden,  and  as  I 
entered  the  room  where  he  lay  his  mother's  figure, 
in  fresh  black,  rose  from  beside  the  coffin.  She 
approached  with  a  slow  step  as  I  stood  hesitating 
at  the  door,  and  offered  me  something  which  I  took 
from  her  mechanically. 

"For  you,"  she  said  in  a  dead  voice.  "I  found 
it  on  him — he  meant  to  leave  it  for  you  some- 
wheres,  I  expect."  She  went  out,  leaving  me  with 
a  folded  slip  of  paper  in  my  hand.  It  contained  a 
few  scrawled  lines: 

Good-by,  Sally,  for  a  while.  Dont  forget  I  love 
you,  nor  how  you  kissed  me  there  in  the  wood.  You 
been  mine  in  my  heart  since  then  and  I  wont  never 
give  you  up.  I  love  you  always  and  am  in  life  and 
deth  yours.  B.  M. 

With  this  in  my  hand  I  went  softly  to  his  side. 
339 


340       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

We  were  alone  together  in  the  poor  and  shabby 
room,  he  handsomer  than  ever  in  his  pale  com 
posure,  his  stern  strong  features  touched  to  nobility 
by  the  hand  of  death.  As  I  looked  at  him  there 
came  an  intolerable  ache  into  my  throat,  for  it 
seemed  to  me  that  here  was  the  man  who  might- 
have  been,  if  so  much  strength  and  force  and  pride 
had  not  been  fettered  and  warped  by  ignorance  and 
poverty.  Perhaps  with  his  Spanish  blood  there  had 
come  down  to  him  the  soul  of  some  valiant  old 
hidalgo,  hot  and  headstrong,  arrogant  and  proud, 
unable  tamely  to  accept  inferiority,  lacking  the 
homely,  plodding  virtues  on  which  the  humbly 
born  must  build  their  fortunes.  But  if  fate  had 
placed  him  otherwise — if  Brett  Morgan  had  been 
of  the  conquistadors?  Ah,  he  had  belonged 
there,  back  in  the  heroic  days  of  Spain,  not  here  in 
the  slumber  and  decay  of  Bandy's  Flat,  not  in  the 
mean  little  house  where  he  was  lying  now.  All  this 
I  thought  more  clearly  afterward;  how  often  and 
often  I  have  thought  it!  Then  I  knew  only  that  a 
sense  of  loss  and  futility,  an  aching  pity  and  regret, 
hurt  me  unbearably.  I  laid  the  flowers  on  his 
crossed  hands;  and  then  I  bent  and  touched  his 
forehead  with  my  lips. 

Now  as  to  the  manner  of  Brett  Morgan's  death : 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       341 

the  ladder  that  descended  into  the  secret  place  was 
old;  a  rung  half-way  down  had  rotted  from  its  fas 
tenings  with  the  passing  of  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
It  had  given  way  under  his  feet  that  night — the  last 
time,  perhaps,  that  he  would  ever  have  trodden  it. 
The  fall  was  trifling  in  itself,  but  somehow  the  re 
volver  he  carried  had  been  caught  and  discharged, 
shooting  him  through  the  body.  He  had  been  dying 
while  I  hurried  over  the  flume  in  the  darkness, 
{praying  that  I  might  reach  the  dam  before  he  came. 
As  to  the  place  itself,  it  was  a  simple  contrivance 
after  all.  On  the  pretense  that  the  cutting  away  of 
the  cliff  had  weakened  the  foundations  of  the  build 
ing,  Mr.  Bates  had  got  in  a  load  of  brick  and  con 
structed  a  new  rear  wall.  But  he  had  built  it,  not 
flush  with  the  old  wall  but  some  six  feet  in  advance 
of  it.  Probably  no  one  but  the  dead  barkeeper  was 
sufficiently  familiar  with  the  cellar  to  have  observed 
the  change,  even  if  Bandy  had  encouraged  visitors. 
Behind  this  wall  was  stored  the  unsold  stock  of 
whisky,  as  well  as  other  matters  which  the  old  gen 
tleman  had  preferred  to  keep  from  his  spouse's 
knowledge.  The  trap-door  in  the  shadow  of  the 
bar  was  a  neat  affair,  admirably  designed  to  escape 
attention,  as  well  as  unlikely  to  receive  much  in  the 
deserted  state  of  the  building. 


342       FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

I  was  not  among  those  who,  on  the  day  after  the 
burial  of  Brett  Morgan,  descended  into  the  hiding- 
place  to  inventory  its  contents.  No  motive  of  in 
terest  or  curiosity  could  outweigh  for  me  the  horror 
of  the  spot  where  the  man  who  in  his  wild  way  had 
loved  me  well  had  met  his  lonely  death.  But  Joe 
went,  and  Miss  Luppy,  and  Kit,  speechlessly  enrap 
tured,  and  also  Mr.  Hackett,  who  had  returned  to 
the  Flat  too  late  for  his  own  purposes,  but  remained 
to  witness  the  last  act  of  the  drama  of  which, 
though  an  actor  in  it,  he  now  understood  the  real 
plot  for  the  first  time.  He  had  heard  the  details 
v/ith  great  interest,  remarking  that,  as  the  poet  said, 
truth  was  stranger  than  fiction. 

Besides  some  unimportant  trifles  the  contents  of 
the  hiding-place  were  some  kegs  still  remaining  of 
the  whisky,  which  were  later  carried  to  the  brink 
of  the  mine  and  staved  in  by  Miss  Luppy 's  order — 
and  under  her  immediate  and  suspicious  superin 
tendence — and  in  a  niche  behind  some  loosened 
bricks  a  metal  box.  The  lock  had  been  forced,  and 
when  the  box  was  opened  the  first  thing  revealed  was 
Joe's  wallet,  containing  the  strangely-fated  letter  of 
Bandy  Bates.  This  letter  I  transcribe : 

Dear  Nephew  Joseph — 

Since  hearing  of  your  mother's  death  you  have 


FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT       343 

been  much  in  my  mind.  There  you  are  an  orphan 
and  alone  away  off  in  old  York  State,  and  here  am 
I  an  aging  man,  alone  too  as  far  as  any  of  my  own 
blood  are  concerned,  away  off  in  this  Golden  State 
of  California.  Now  what  I  have  been  thinking  is, 
that  we  two  are  all  that  is  left  of  the  family.  I  have 
no  children,  and  God  knows  sorely  disappointed 
about  it.  Why  not  then,  Nephew  Joseph,  come  out 
to  your  old  Uncle  here  in  the  Golden  West,  and  be 
what  my  own  boy  would  have  been  to  me  if  I  had 
had  one?  As  you  may  have  heard  from  your 
mother,  I  have  done  well  and  prospered  since  run 
ning  away  from  home  to  California  over  forty 
years  ago.  I  am  maybe  not  as  rich  as  some  think, 
on  account  of  liking  speculation  too  well,  but  there 
is  plenty  to  leave  Mrs.  B.  comfortable  and  a  good 
wad  besides  that  I  have  put  into  a  form  convenient 
for  keeping  out  of  sight  and  have  now  laid  away 
where  Mrs.  B.  may  hunt  from  garret  to  cellar  as 
often  as  she  takes  the  notion  without  finding  it. 
Women  have  their  good  points,  Nephew  Joseph, 
but  one  of  them  isn't  letting  a  man  alone  to  run  his 
affairs  as  he's  a  mind  to. 

Now,  Nephew  Joseph,  this  sum  that  I  have  laid 
by,  and  on  which  my  widow  would  have  no  claim, 
being  provided  for  otherwise  to  the  extent  of  her 
legal  share  of  my  estate,  is  meant  for  you,  being  as 
you  are  all  that  is  left  me  of  my  kin.  Won't  you, 
then,  come  out  to  your  old  Uncle  for  the  few  years 
he  has  left,  to  give  me  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
with  my  own  eyes  that  I  leave  my  money  in  good 
hands?  Don't  delay,  for  I  am  getting  old  and 
breaking  a  good  deal,  and  there  is  no  one  here  that 
I  can  trust  to  know  about  the  place  where  I  have 
put  your  inheritance,  along  with  what  I  can't  find 
it  in  my  conscience  to  traffic  in  any  more,  nor  in 


344        FORTUNE  AT  BANDY'S  FLAT 

my  heart  to  throw  away.  I  have  been  working1  like 
a  day-laborer  lately,  so  that  I  know  my  neighbors 
say  I  have  turned  skin-flint  in  my  old  age  and  am 
trying  to  save  wages.  But  when  you  come  we  can 
laugh  at  them  together.  Please  write  soon,  and  let 
me  know  you  are  agreeable  to  do  as  I  wish. 
Yours  affec.  uncle, 

HEBER  J.  BATES. 

Beneath  the  wallet  in  the  box  were  government 
securities  to  the  amount  of  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars.  They  were  of  an  issue  nearly  thirty  years 
old  and  the  interest  had  long  since  ceased.  But 
what  had  accrued  during  the  years  when  it  was  still 
running  made  a  substantial  addition  to  the  principal. 

What  Joe's  legal  claim  would  have  been  I  don't 
know,  because  Miss  Luppy  refused  even  to  take 
half  and  at  once  handed  over  the  securities  to  him, 
only  reluctantly  consenting  in  the  end  to  accept  the 
sum  represented  by  the  interest.  And  as  it  is  under 
stood  that  Joe  is  to  be  her  heir,  some  day,  I  sup 
pose,  the  old  home  of  Bandy  Bates  will  be  ours. 

Joe,  by  the  way,  did  not  sign  the  South  Ameri 
can  contract.  The  long-delayed  legacy  of  Bandy 
Bates  made  it  unnecessary,  and  besides,  the  chief 
thought  that  as  a  married  man  Joe  ought  to  have 
a  job  nearer  home. 

THE  END 


L-\J 


M530836 


